


With you, with me

by NohaIjiachi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Getting Together, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Priest!Aziraphale au, religious themes are inevitably brushed upon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-09-29 19:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NohaIjiachi/pseuds/NohaIjiachi
Summary: “Oh, shit,” Crowley muttered, but it came out more like ‘ohkjfd—‘The man— Abloody priestwas still keeping his umbrella over Crowley. The fabric of his button-up had darkened on his shoulders, now throughly drenched.He could see more details, now, and Crowley stared. The priest had round, gentle features, and a shock of hair so blond it looked white collected in messy, soft curls. There was some sense of deep-sedated sadness in his grey-blue eyes, as he looked down at Crowley.“I’d imagine that you need to get back up on your feet, then, son,” the priest said, sounding somehow tired. “You can’t stay here.”“…I have nowhere to go,” Crowley replied, feeling like his tongue was double in size in his mouth. It was a lie, and wasn’t one at the same time.He could technically go anywhere he wanted, as long as the Bentley stopped pouting at him for getting high again, but he hadnowhereto go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by my own [priest!Aziraphale](https://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/post/187146918361/priestaziraphale-au-with-demon-crowley-slightly) [AU doodles](https://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/post/187310336436/more-random-sketches-from-the-priest-au-lol-i), where people enthusiastically enabled me. So I took those loose headcanons, gave it a bit of a polish and tweaking where necessary, and stitched it together in a coherent narrative. This is currently un-beta'ed, as my beta is a saint that already spent a good chunk of time looking over my other [GO multi-chaptered fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314855/chapters/48162856) I started posting, so be patient with me. I'll surely come back to this with corrections as soon as possible. 
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy the read! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ

—1—

“Why do you call me _dear boy_? We are the same age.“

Aziraphale smiled privately as he took out the tea bags he let steep for just the right amount of time. The trip from his tiny kitchen counter to the table was quick, and he put the tray down before sitting in front of Anthony.

Anthony wasn’t sitting as much as he was artfully slouching. Chair turned on the wrong side, so he could lean forward with his elbows on the backrest, long thin legs spread at the sides. His shoulder-length hair, mussed perfectly, framed the angular lines of his face as he looked up at Aziraphale with a studiously tilted smile and heavy lidded eyes, his sunglasses nowhere to be seen.

Aziraphale had almost grown used to the _way_ Anthony looked at him. Almost.

“That might be the case, yes,” he conceded, blowing on his cup before taking a tiny sip. “But I have been told I am an ‘old soul’.”

Anthony scoffed, and took a far more generous sip out of his tea. It should’ve scalded him. There was no reaction.

“Whoever said that didn’t know you,” he declared, firm.

“And do you? Know me?”

Anthony’s left eyebrow jumped up, just a tiny bit, as he tilted his head to one side while his smile widened. A small tuft of red hair fell in front of his face, and he tucked it behind his ear as he replied, “I like to think so.”

Aziraphale hummed, sipping some more. He had almost grown used to the way Anthony’s long, nimble fingers tucked his hair behind his own ear so delicately. Almost.

“You are not answering my question.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to smile. “You are always so full of pep, my dear. You hardly look older than thirty-five.”

“_Full of pep_—“ Anthony muttered under his breath with a little eyeroll, causing Aziraphale to chuckle. “You don’t help your case, if you keep speaking like you came straight out the 1800s. What are you, a time traveller?”

Aziraphale’s smile turned just a tiny bit more strained. Anyone would have missed it, anyone but Anthony J. Crowley, currently sitting across the table, amber eyes rarely leaving the man in front of him.

He didn’t miss it for two specific reasons: The first was that Anthony J. Crowley was a Demon, slouching in the most relaxed pose he could muster to keep away the constant soreness he felt when sitting in that tiny apartment. The second was that Anthony J. Crowley was hard at work, studying, examining.

“…I’ve been raised in an old-fashioned manner, I’d imagine,” Aziraphale finally replied, and his smile was back to the usual gentle, relaxed curve of a soft mouth.

Anthony sipped his tea, mind running.

—

Six months earlier

It happened as things usually happened to him. With a metaphorical (and sometimes literal) kick in the ass and his face in the mud.

He slithered himself neatly into an nonexistent free spot in that drug ring, because he had, admittedly, been slacking off for quite a while and they were starting to get crabby, Down There. He had hoped that the little nudge he gave to the creation of low-cost airlines would’ve been enough to keep them at bay. All those people uncomfortably cramped in a giant metal tub, hundreds of meters above the safety of solid ground, their knees pressed against the plastic in the tiny seatings? Utter genius, if you asked him. Thousands of people, day in day out, frustrated by the endless lines and the nickel and diming of overpriced snacks and all the other passengers in general? C’mon, it was possibly even a better idea than the whole M25 ordeal had been!

And it had been appreciated, at first. But that was a _while ago_, and Hastur made a point of reminding Crowley that he solely lacked in finesse and craftsmanship, as many times as demonly possible.

So he got into that drug ring. What better place to get some work done? People getting high out of their minds. Seeing things that corrupted their souls in their delirious state, and boom. Souls ensured for his master.

Take _that_, Hastur.

Except— Except it wasn’t all that fun. Crowley decided to try the thing himself, just to figure out how it felt for the humans, and suddenly his stupid corporation was hooked. And he kept being hooked, drinking even more than usual to try cope during the day. And the humans couldn’t cope like _that_ without dying, so they started dying a lot, and the police got involved, and it _sucked_.

“Din’nt wan’ all of ‘em to die—“ he found himself muttering one night, riding the low. There was something really nasty about that drug, he should’ve realized a long time ago, because it made him _forget_ he could sober himself up with a snap of his fingers.

Or maybe he was purposefully forgetting he could do that. He couldn’t deal with this while sober. Not after that girl died. She wasn’t even twenty.

“Fuck this shit—“ he slurred to no one in particular. He was sitting in an alley, and it was raining. He didn’t remember where he was. He just knew that the police broke in the underground base and they all scattered like roaches. He took the Bentley and sped out of there and kept going until he couldn’t anymore. He stopped at the edges of a tiny countryside village, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and making his shirt stick to his back. He took another dose, because _fuck everything_, and promptly felt the reproachful, silent energy of the Bentley pressing down on him from all sides.

He got out of it, muttering “Don’t need my own bloody car scolding me—“ and he left her there as he wandered, waiting for the high to hit. It was deep into the night, so the streets were deserted.

He didn’t know where he was. He just wandered as he lost himself and did not think of all those dead people for some glorious minutes. The high crashed, and low tide metaphorically rose, and he sat in that alley while rain drenched him from head to toe. Miserable. Lonely.

He really hoped the whole bullshit ordeal would at least be enough to keep the guys Downstairs off his back for a little while. Because if he was going through all _that,_ only for it not to make a single difference in Crowley’s current standing with Head Office, he could possibly lose his marbles.

It took his sluggish, drug-addled mind some seconds to realize rain wasn’t hitting him anymore, and that there was the distinct pitter-patter of drops on an umbrella. Crowley looked up, blearily.

There was a man looming over him. At least he thought it was a man— his sight was blurry and he couldn’t really make out the details.

Whoever they were, they were keeping their umbrella over Crowley, their shoulders rapidly getting wet.

_What a stupid thing to do_, Crowley thought to himself, slowly blinking,_ I’m already wet_

“Do you need me to call an ambulance, son?”

Definitely a man, if the voice was anything to come by. Although there was a softness to it all that some people might consider ‘unmanly’.

But well, Crowley wasn’t ‘some people’.

He replied, “No, thanks”. Or tried to. It came out as an inarticulate noise.

“…I’m calling an ambulance,” the man replied, taking out something that, in other circumstances, might have offended Crowley on an almost personal level. It was a flip-phone that had to be at least fifteen years old.

Who even had flip-phones anymore?

“—No,” Crowley managed to hiss. It was a short word. He could do it.

The man stopped with his thumb hovering on the buttons.

“No— Ambulance,” Crowley uttered, with more effort than should’ve been necessary. “No— No calling— Anybody.”

The man stayed in the same position for long seconds, before heaving a deep sigh and snapping the ancient piece of plastic close, sliding it in his pocket. Crowley’s vision was slowly getting back into focus, and he glanced at the man in the weak light of the street lamps coming through the alley.

Black shoes, black trousers perfectly ironed, black shirt tucked into the trouser and a white colla—

“Oh, shit,” Crowley muttered, but it came out more like ‘ohkjfd—‘

The man— A _bloody priest_ was still keeping his umbrella over Crowley. The fabric of his button-up had darkened on his shoulders, now thoroughly drenched.

He could see more details, now, and Crowley stared. The priest had round, gentle features, and a shock of hair so blond it looked white collected in messy, soft curls. There was some sense of deep-sedated sadness in his grey-blue eyes, as he looked down at Crowley.

“I’d imagine that you need to get back up on your feet, then, son,” the priest said, sounding somehow tired. “You can’t stay here.”

“…I have nowhere to go,” Crowley replied, feeling like his tongue was double in size in his mouth. It was a lie, and wasn’t one at the same time.

He could technically go anywhere he wanted, as long as the Bentley stopped pouting at him for getting high again, but he had _nowhere_ to go.

“Hardly an issue, dear,” the priest replied, and Crowley blinked. Were all priests so cold-hearted, nowadays? Just kicking junkies up and away from their perfect little villages? “C’mon, on your feet. You look like a spry young man. Up you go!”

He had leaned down to gently grab Crowley’s elbow, pulling. Crowley managed to get up on his feet after a couple of false starts, and then swayed. The priest’s hand closed more firmly on his arm, steadying him.

“ ‘M not all that young—“ Crowley replied, slurred. The priest let out a little, huffy chuckle. He started pulling again out the alley in the main street, keeping his umbrella over Crowley rather than himself.

“No? How old are you, then?”

Crowley squinted. It took him some seconds to remember the age he usually replied with when humans asked that question.

“—Forty-five,” he finally managed, his feet automatically following the lead.

“Oh, we are the same age, then,” the priest replied, voice almost cheerful. He stopped in front of a modest apartment complex, and then seemed to hesitate, before taking Crowley’s hand and placing the umbrella in it.

“Keep this for me, will you? Thank you, dear,” he said, sounding distracted as he rummaged in his slacks’ pocket, producing a bunch of keys out of it, and opening the door. Crowley blinked slowly.

What was going on?

The priest gently guided him inside, and took care in shaking the umbrella, which Crowley noticed was decorated with a tartan pattern, just outside the door, before sliding it in the umbrella stand sitting right by their side.

“I’m afraid we don’t get elevators in this old thing,” the priest said, sounding apologetic. “Do you think you can bear a couple of flights of stairs?”

Still utterly confused, Crowley nodded. The priest smiled briefly, before putting a gentle touch on Crowley’s elbow yet again and led him up the dingy stairs. He opened another door once they reached the second floor and shuffled inside.

A sense of general soreness immediately grabbed at Crowley the moment he put his foot inside, making something in his stomach twist. This wasn’t holy ground, but it felt dangerously close to it. There was no reason for it, the place looked like any ordinary old, small flat. An open space with a tiny kitchenette in the corner, a couple of doors to their left. The wallpaper looked ancient, and the furniture a mismatch of pieces clearly not belonging to a single set. The place was a bit chaotic, but not in a dirty way, more in that ‘_place you can tell it’s lived in’_ way.

“What is your name, dear boy?”

Crowley was being gently pushed on the flower-patterned sofa. He blinked repeatedly as the priest walked toward a closet in the corner and produced a big fluffy towel out of it.

“…Anthony,” he finally replied, when the priest approached once more and deposited the towel over his shoulders, using a corner of it to gently start to scrub Crowley’s hair dry.

The sensation of soreness was worsening, which Crowley knew was probably due to the low starting to hit _real_ bad. He grimaced, as his insides lurched.

“…Yours?” he asked, tense, just to try and distract himself for the unpleasant feeling.

“Aziraphale,” the priest declared, light. Crowley blinked.

“Azi— Azr— That’s a mouthful.”

“I get that a lot,” was the amused reply. “…Dear boy, are you quite alright?”

“I think I’m going to puke—“ he managed to reply, strangled. And then, some instants later, he doubled over, painfully spilling his guts into a basin that was being held under him. He had no idea how the priest managed to grab one so quickly, nor from where. Not that it mattered.

A hand gently combed Crowley’s hair away from his sweaty forehead, to then slide down on the back of his head, a thumb rubbing slow circles on the nape of his neck.

“It’s quite alright, let it out,” the priest was murmuring kindly. “You’ll feel better. It will be alright.”

Bile burned in Crowley’s throat like poison, but at least he managed to stop gagging after a minute. Once it was clear the worst was over the priest stood, utterly unperturbed, and went to empty the contents of the basin in the toilet, the sound of water being flushed coming in from one of the two other rooms.

Crowley sat on the sofa miserably, folded on himself and elbows resting on his knees, cold sweat breaking on his forehead. He didn’t usually vomit after a low, unless he had been _really_ wasted, so whatever tiny part of his brain was still working imagined it was probably due to the strange feeling of holiness permeating the apartment, that was not exactly helping. He felt sore all over. He guessed that’s how humans felt when they had a fever.

Something dabbed at his forehead and Crowley tried to focus back on his surrounding. The priest was using the towel he used for his hair to dry the sweat away from his face, and then gently cleaned his chin.

“Here— Rinse your mouth,” he said, soft, pushing a glass of water in one of Crowley’s clammy hands. “You should lie down and try to sleep. I’ll leave the basin by the couch.”

Completely devoid of energy, Crowley complied, spitting the gross water back in the glass. The priest didn’t seem to mind, taking it back as Crowley did not lie down as much as he let himself fall on a side like a rock. He blearily blinked at the flower-y pattern of the couch. It was hideous.

“There you go, here’s a dear,” the priest murmured, soothing, from somewhere at his side. He adjusted Crowley’s legs up on the couch and took off his shoes. A vague weight landed on top of Crowley, and he distantly registered the tartan quilt he was being tucked in with.

He looked up with immense effort. There was a serene and yet melancholic expression on the priest’s face. He was still utterly drenched, the fabric of his button-up sticking to his shoulders and hair plastered down, having spent every second since they got in the apartment fussing around Crowley, rather than taking care of himself. Crowley tried to ask him ‘why?’, but his eyes were really heavy—

The last thing he heard before succumbing to sleep was a light sneeze.

—

When he woke up, far more lucid, he registered several things in rapid succession:

1— He needed to puke again, so he did, trying his best to aim for the basin.

2— He was in the apartment of a _priest_.

3— Said priest rushed to his side, a soft hand landing on Crowley’s forehead, the other rubbing his back.

4— Said priest had taken Crowley, someone he must’ve thought as just a random junkie in the street, in his own home, instead of calling the police.

5— Said priest was murmuring soothing nonsense as Crowley spewed out what amounted to just acrid bile, considering his stomach was utterly empty.

“…There, there,” the priest with the mouthful of a name, Aziraphale, said kindly. “It’s nothing. You’ll be fine in no time.”

“No, I _won’t_—“ Crowley replied, petulantly. Aziraphale huffed.

“You’re hardly the first person I had to nurse through a withdrawal, dear boy. You’ll be fine.”

Crowley sniffed around the unpleasant burning in his throat, squinting at Aziraphale through his red hair, hanging limply around his face. Aziraphale glanced back at him, mildly flat.

“—What?”

Aziraphale huffed, almost amused, and ignored his question. “All done?” he asked, instead, one hand on the basin. Crowley nodded wordlessly, falling back down on the couch on his back and blinking at the ceiling, as Aziraphale went to empty the basin once more.

_What???_

“What do you mean by ‘nurse through a withdrawal’?” he asked when the priest walked back in. Crowley distantly noticed he wasn’t wearing the black shirt and clerical collar anymore, having opted for a pair of soft looking cream slacks and a white polo, looking more like the sort of guy you’d cross in the streets and promptly forget about.

“…I cannot really explain that concept in simpler words without a dictionary, I’m afraid, dear.”

“It’s— Don’t play dumb,” Crowley snapped back, somewhat reproachful. He dragged himself up in a sitting position, slinging an arm over the backrest of the couch to look at Aziraphale above the kitchen aisle. “Do you pick up random junkies on the street to bring home and take care of often?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that, dear boy,” Aziraphale replied, sounding severe. He was tinkering with an ancient looking kettle. “I help whoever needs it.”

Crowley’s nose curled. “I could rob you,” he said, cold. “Hit you when your back is turned to me so I can strip you clean of anything precious you have and go get high again. I could be a dealer. Maybe the police is searching for me.”

“Will you? Are you?” Aziraphale replied, sounding utterly unfazed as he turned the stove under the kettle on. Crowley blinked repeatedly.

“…No.” 

(It wasn’t a complete lie. He had no reason to hurt this person. And he _had_ been dealing drugs, and the police _had_ searched for him, but a snap of his fingers as he drove the Bentley in the night and he wasn’t those things anymore. Just a junkie.)

“Then I doubt we ought to worry ourselves with hypothetical scenarios,” Aziraphale said with a small shrug, moving about his kitchen to take stuff out the cupboards.

Crowley’s frown deepened. Even for human standards, _even for a servant of the Almighty_, this level of faith seemed foolish.

“You don’t even know me—“

“I know that your name is Anthony, and that you are forty-five years old. That is something, isn’t it?” Aziraphale replied, still with that irritatingly light note in his voice, as if he picked up addicts from alleys every other Tuesday. “And I know that you need help. Isn’t that enough?”

That seemed to strike a chord, something snapping in Crowley. He rose to his feet, throwing the quilt away and stomping over the kitchen isle, although the effect was ruined by his socked feet.

“You don’t get to assume anything with that holier-than-thou attitude—“ he tried to growl, except it came out like a weak, petulant cry as he swayed a bit, head spinning.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down on a chair.

“You need help,” he declared, firm. “But I’m not foolish enough to believe I can be a saviour to the troubled. I help when I can, and I especially help those who are already trying to help themselves, and just need an extra hand. That’s you, is it not? I could see it in your eyes. You are already trying to fight your way out of this. I will fight by your side.”

Crowley blinked, mouth slightly open.

“…Why?”

“Dear boy, what are we supposed to do if not lend a hand to each other?” Aziraphale asked back, a tilted smile on his mouth “The world is harsh enough as it is. We ought to rely on one another, in times of need.”

They said nothing more, as the kettle started to whistle. Aziraphale busied himself with preparing tea and putting a plate of wheat rusks in front of Crowley, along with a steaming cup. Crowley ate, utterly flabbergasted.

— 

It took Crowley some days of miserable withdrawal symptoms before remembering he could just purge that blasted poison out of his own body with a snap of his fingers. The first two he spent almost entirely draped on Aziraphale’s couch, as the priest busied himself around him, fussing over him silently every now and then. It seemed that Aziraphale was attuned to other people’s suffering in a way that only people who came into the world with the curse of being sympathetic could, because when in the late afternoon Crowley was feeling like his entire body itched and he was seriously considering the idea of bolting for the door and go get himself another dose, Aziraphale had silently moved Crowley’s legs so he could sit by his side, putting them back down on his own thighs, and rested his elbows on Crowley’s shins. Not forcefully, but heavy enough to make him feel anchored. So he gritted his teeth through the worst of it, while the priest silently knitted what looked like a pair of bright pink baby shoes, the rhythmic tic-tac of the knitting needles somehow reassuring, instead of irritating.

The third morning Aziraphale emerged from his bedroom, which he had tried to offer to Crowley intermittently only to receive a glare in return every time, fully dressed back in the black slacks and button up, white clerical collar snug on his neck, with a black suit jacket thrown on top.

“I’ve got service, this morning,” he said with a brief smile when Crowley glanced at him with red-rimmed eyes. It must’ve been a Sunday, then. Crowley had utterly lost any sense of time, for the last few months. “Would you mind to accompany me?”

Something uneasy squirmed in Crowley’s chest “I don’t go into churches.”

They blinked at each other silently, Aziraphale clearly surprised by the hastiness of that reply. Still, he didn’t seem to take offence.

“You are not obligated to participate, it’ll just— Make me feel more at ease if you’d be so kind as to come with me regardless.”

_So I can keep an eye on you_, was the clear meaning. Crowley sniffed.

“I don’t go into churches,” he repeated, more firm. A vague crestfallen expression seemed to rise on Aziraphale’s face, so Crowley added. “I can sit outside the door. You will still see me from the altar. Would that satisfy you?”

“…Yes,” Aziraphale simply replied, and then helped Crowley into some old clothes that Crowley wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot pole, if he hadn’t been absolutely miserable. As it was, he accepted the borrowed clothing Aziraphale found for him in the church donation bin, and put on the one thing that hadn’t been launched in the washing machine, sunglasses sliding to cover his tired gaze. Aziraphale smiled briefly at him and gently hooked his fingers into Crowley’s elbow, guiding him outside.

The church hadn’t been far from the modest apartment complex. An old thing of solid bricks just down the road, surrounded by a green lawn. Aziraphale had been greeted by the locals warmly as they walked by, smiling and waving back, not saying anything to the clearly curious gazes that would be launched at Crowley. Dutifully, too tired to even think about doing anything other than sitting, Crowley let himself get guided toward the stairs leading to the entrance and down.

“Some fresh air will be good for you,” Aziraphale commented cheerfully once Crowley was seated, vaguely hunched on himself. “I’ll see you in a bit, dear boy.”

The fresh air _had_ been good for him. He still felt a slight prickle on his skin as he listened in bits and pieces to Aziraphale’s sermon, but the steps he was sitting on weren’t nowhere nearly as holy-feeling as Aziraphale’s apartment was. He felt more clear headed, and also incredibly dumb.

A snap of his fingers, and the general misery grabbing at him went. He took a deep breath, finally feeling normal.

_Don’t fucking touch drugs ever again, you _ ** _idiot_ ** _._

He had to go back to the apartment with Aziraphale once the sermon had been over and the priest had spent long minutes exchanging words with members of his congregation, but the soreness when he stepped back in the flat was much less pronounced, more like a bit of drowsiness rather than actual pain.

“You look so much better already!” Aziraphale commented as Crowley took off his glasses, taking a critical look at himself in the mirror. The faded blue sweater and too-big jeans were a fashion murder, and his hair looked like limp spaghetti.

“…I’m going to take a shower.”

“Of course, dear. You can find clean towels in the closet, and a change of clothes over that chair,” Aziraphale replied, peacefully satisfied, not even looking up from some mail he picked from the box on the way up.

The change of clothes were just as much of a fashion murder as the ones he was wearing were, and he did a bit of— _Adjusting_, while he was in the bathroom away from prying eyes. Doing a demonic miracle in the holy-ish space of the apartment made him wince with a sting of pain in his temple, but it went as fast as it came, and when he stepped out, hair dry and soft, wearing a shirt and dark jeans that had been three sizes too big clinging to him like a second skin he did _not_ miss the surprised, but stifled appreciative look Aziraphale launched him. That also went as fast as it came, and in a second Aziraphale was smiling as usual.

“Seems like those clothes are a better fit, lucky us! Are you hungry? I’m afraid my fridge is criminally empty, so I’m heating up a casserole. Hope you won’t mind.”

“Of course not, _Father_,” Crowley replied with a curling smile. Aziraphale sideway glanced at him.

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“I might keep my distance from churches, but that doesn’t mean I cannot respect a figure of authority.”

Much to his surprise, Aziraphale let out a small scoff.

“I’m no— _Authority figure_, Anthony.”

“So you don’t want me to call you Father?”

“Call me however you prefer. I just don’t want you to feel obligated—“

“Well, I don’t,” Crowley replied with a shrug, sitting down by the kitchen table. “Are you not going to ask me why I won’t go inside a church?”

Aziraphale surprised him again, giving him a quiet, contemplative look, before answering with unexpected easiness “If you wish to tell me, I will listen. But if you don’t, I hardly think it’s any of my business.”

“Huh?”

“I’m not here to preach or proselytise, if that is what you are expecting. I’ve never liked doing that, faith has to come from inside one’s heart, not forced by being badgered with it repeatedly.”

Crowley blinked slowly.

“Besides,” Aziraphale continued as he distractedly leaned down to check the casserole in the oven. “Faith has many forms. Many people might go through their entire lives never adhering to any religion, and yet their souls might be most righteous, their faith unwavering. We are all brothers and sisters, we all celebrate the gift of life in different ways, and God loves us all. He doesn’t need prayers said in a certain order or in a specific language, nor repeated rituals, to love and forgive us.”

“…That’s rich, coming from someone that came back after holding service not even an hour ago,” Crowley commented quietly, for lack of anything better to say. Aziraphale chuckled.

“Service and prayers are more for our own comfort. Could you prepare the table, dear boy? Lunch is almost ready. You can find everything above the sink.”

Crowley quietly complied, and sat down to eat in a relaxed silence. He belatedly realized he never had a meal that felt this— _homey,_ in his entire life.

—

Later during the day he draped himself over the couch again, more for Aziraphale’s sake than anything else. The guy would probably grow suspicious if Crowley was to suddenly act all healthy and active, so he leaned down on it —it was an eyesore, but it was a fairly comfortable sofa— and forced up a grimace of displeasure, taking advantage of the occasion for some good old-fashioned Sloth. Aziraphale still fussed around him, but much less so, offering to bring Crowley something to drink only a couple of times. Crowley hadn’t accepted, feigning a nausea he did not actually feel, but did not force himself to puke to add more flair to the scene. The poor priest had already done enough cleaning up after him.

Coming dinner time Crowley felt like he had acted long enough, and was growing bored, so he got up to observe Aziraphale as he busied himself in the kitchenette once more. He must’ve gone out to get groceries while Crowley napped, and was now engrossed in preparing what was shaping to be some kind of chicken soup with dexterous movements. He jumped just slightly when a soft knock interrupted the silence.

“I’ll take it,” Crowley replied, making him jump again. He probably hadn’t realized Crowley was awake.

When the door opened, Crowley hardly had the time to even see who had knocked. An old man half of Crowley’s height entered with the intent of someone ready to bulldoze a city.

“Hello, Robert! What brings you here?” Aziraphale asked, clearly amused by the fact that the old man, Robert, apparently, had ignored Crowley as if the door opened on its own.

“Good evening, Father! Just wanted to ask something—“ the old man replied, somewhat concerned,as Crowley, behind him, closed the door with a tilted eyebrow. “I was speaking with Dorothy, and you know how _she_ is, always so absent-minded— She told me a car has been parked for _days_ some ways away from her house, she said it like it was a curious little fact— So I went to check, and I don’t recognize the model! Seems to be rather old, and it definitely doesn’t belong to anyone in the village! Don’t you think we should call the police?”

It didn’t take much for Crowley to put together the pieces. Amused, he interjected before Aziraphale could reply.

“That’s probably _my_ car.”

Robert whipped around as Aziraphale blinked, mouth only slightly open in the act of speaking. Crowley waved with his fingers.

“Well, seems like this solves the issue,” Aziraphale then said, clearly relieved. “Robert, this is Anthony.”

“Why would you leave it so far away?” Robert asked, squinting. Crowley shrugged.

“I like to walk.”

“We will make sure to move it closer, Robert, no need to worry,” Aziraphale interjected as Robert kept squinting at Crowley, putting a hand on his shoulder to steer him toward the exit. “Thank you for letting me know, dear. Now do go on, before it’s dark out!”

With a bit more grumbling the old man was finally convinced to leave. Aziraphale sighed when the door closed behind him.

“Robert Redford,” he said, with an almost fond eye roll. “Likes to work with his imagination— This is a really small village and nothing ever happens, so I’d imagine that had been the highlight of his week. Sorry about it.”

Crowley huffed, amused. “No problem. I can go move the car closer right away.”

“Let’s have dinner first. I like to take evening walks,” Aziraphale replied airily. Clearly, he preferred not to let Crowley go out alone.

Crowley shrugged, and helped prepare the table again.

—

“Hello, darling,” he murmured, draping himself over the bonnet of the Bentley, palms splayed on the metal. “Are you still mad at me?”

Aziraphale smiled, clearly seeing Crowley talking to his car as a funny little quirk instead of something to worry about. He had whistled, softly, when they came within view of it.

“I’m no expert, but calling it an _old car_ seems like a disservice—” he had commented. “…Vintage. That’s the right word, isn’t it?”

Crowley might’ve pushed his chest out like a preening peacock, just a tiny bit.

“Yes, my dear, no need to worry,” Crowley continued, possibly making kissy faces at the windshield. “I’ve got a friend along, so do behave, alright?”

At that, Aziraphale’s smile widened. He graciously thanked Crowley when he opened the passenger door for him, sliding in.

“Beautiful—“ He was murmuring when Crowley climbed in the driver’s seat. His plump hand was caressing the dashboard almost reverently. The engine seemed to purr in delight, when Crowley turned the key. “You take good care of her, don’t you?”

Crowley knew it was a rhetorical question, so he did not reply, a little smile on his face as Aziraphale gingerly poked the leather upholstery. He took the main road directed back toward Aziraphale’s apartment without needing to be prompted, the Bentley letting out little satisfied engine noises. She was _very_ happy Crowley was finally sober.

He kept his eyes on the road, but could see that Aziraphale had turned to stare at him, as he drove. It was clear in the way he fidgeted oh-so slightly in his seat that he must have some questions. Maybe a lot of questions.

“_Crowley_,” The radio said, turning on all of a sudden. Crowley turned it off so fast that Aziraphale blinked down at the radio and then back at him.

“…I have to get the radio looked at,” Crowley said, willing his voice steady. “Likes to turn on on it’s own.”

Aziraphale hummed, but said nothing else. The ride was short —it _was_ a tiny village—, and before they knew it Crowley was parking the Bentley in the plenty of space available outside the apartment complex. Then they sat there for silent seconds, after the engine had turned off with a murmur.

Crowley was looking around feverishly from behind his sunglasses. He needed a fast distraction, because every second that went with him leaving that attempt at a contact ignored, the more of a pain in the ass it would be for him. But he knew Aziraphale wouldn’t just leave— He was considering using a bit of _convincing_ with the help of demonic miracles just to get rid of the priest, when his eyes fell on a small tub of what wasn’t by any means Aspirin propped between the seatings.

Right.

“Um, Father—“ Crowley murmured, purposefully sounding indecisive. He picked up the tub gingerly, and immediately felt the Bentley’s displeasure. “Could you— Could you get rid of this for me, before I come back up?”

Aziraphale hesitated for all of two seconds, before accepting the tub of not-medicine, studiously not looking at it as his fingers closed around it.

“Of course,” he said, delicately. “I’ll knock once the coast is clear,” he then added, exiting the car. He seemed to linger for an instant, and without turning he murmured “…I’m very proud of you, dear boy,” before closing the door.

His tone was so earnestly sincere it made Crowley feel just a tiny bit guilty, but at least the Bentley was much less irked, already. He waited for the priest to disappear in the entrance of the apartment complex, before turning the radio on.

“_—Took your sweet time_,” The voice declared, annoyed. “_Status? You were doing such a good job sending souls, and then you stopped all of a sudden. That was a commendation coming for you, Crowley, what gives?_”

Crowley’s nose curled. He did not want to even _think_ about how many poor bastards lost their mortal lives and their immortal souls as well, because of him.

“Got a bit sidetracked. Police.” he grunted back, curt.

“_Pol—what?_”

He was speaking with Hastur, then “Is— Human law enforcement?” When only silence replied, Crowley sighed “The jailers. Human jailers.”

“_Oooh, I see. That’s a shame,_” Crowley could hear the sarcasm, now that he knew his interlocutor. “_Better get out before a discorporation, huh, Crowley? But you can’t really afford to slack off for long, you know? You should probably get back to it, and fast._”

Something lurched in Crowley’s stomach. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose.

“I— Huuuh— Found something else you’ll like,” he said, and then mentally punched himself. What was he even _saying_?! He had no idea how to get Hastur off his back!

“_Go on?_” Hastur replied, clearly unimpressed.

“It’s— _Huuuuh_—“ he looked around feverishly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The lights on the second floor flat were on. “A— A priest!”

“_A priest? What about it?_”

“It’s— Huuuh— He’s pretty damn holy—“ Crowley continued, remembering Hastur’s penchant for tempting priests in particular. “Thought you’d like it— Aren’t you the one always going on about craftsmanship?”

“_Isn’t that— What do you usually say? ‘Not your scene’?_”

“Well, I was thinking about giving it a shot. He seems like a good one to crack—“ Crowley’s finger kept drumming nervously. _Just leave me alone!_ he mentally begged. “Went into his apartment and it felt almost like consecrated ground! Not bad, huh?”

A silence followed, and when Hastur spoke again the sarcasm was gone. There was a hint of excited fervour in his voice, instead. “_Really? Where is he? It’s— Rare, nowadays, to find a priest capable of making a place holy with his mere presence. The vast majority are in just for the power and the easy money—_“

“Like I’m telling you!” Crowley replied, forcing an amused tone that came out more hysterical. “I’m claiming it, Hastur.”

“_Alright, alright,_” Hastur conceded with a huff. “_I will wait and see, Crowley. I still think you lack the touch to deal with something like this. I will be happy to come and claim this soul, when you fail.”_

“Fuck off, Hastur,” Crowley groaned, and a rough chuckle resounded from the speaker, before the radio turned off. Crowley’s head fell backwards heavily, landing on the backrest with a muted thud.

“…Shit,” he muttered.

—

The point was that _Hastur_ had a point. Crowley did not particularly like temptings that went all close and personal, avoiding them if he could. He’d much rather cause mischief on a greater, and more far removed, scale.

Because getting close and personal meant getting to know a target down to their core. Their strengths and weaknesses, their dreams and fears, their joys and failures and that, inevitably, translated in Crowley feeling like a really awful monster.

(Which he was, technically, but he did not like to linger on that unless he had enough alcohol in his body to kill an elephant.)

Because he _liked_ people, in general. Terrible habit for a Demon, really.

And well— He _liked_ Aziraphale. The man was earnestly kind, which seemed to be a dying quality in the modern world. And Crowley definitely did not feel like breaking his soul. The humans desperately needed people as kind as this priest.

And yeah, there was the tickling of primal instincts telling him that it would be so delicious, though. To smell the despair of what was once a holy man. To feel the salt of his tears on his tongue. To corrupt a soul that was so pure.

He did not like those instincts. He tended to push those instincts as deep in his insides as he could.

So he had two choices: Either he did what had to be done, and then possibly take a century long nap so he won’t have to think about it, or he bought time, and purposefully failed.

He’d have to think about how to ward off Hastur, though. The creepy bastard. He sounded so happy about the idea of coming and putting his dirty fingers all over a priest that was, for once, the genuine article.

He massaged his eyes with a sigh. He had to decide, and fast—

A soft knock on the window shook him, making him jump as he whipped his head around. Aziraphale smiled sympathetically at him through the glass.

“You can come up, if you want,” he simply said, and, right— Crowley took a deep breath. He’d have to take some time, and think.

He followed silently off the Bentley and up the stairs. There was just the hint of a pungent smell near the sink, and Crowley did not comment. Neither of them said anything, but Aziraphale looked so content he was almost glowing, and when they went to sleep he wished Crowley a good night in an almost musical manner.

_“…I’m very proud of you, dear boy,” _he said, completely and utterly sincere, to the drug addict he picked up from the street like a puppy and had known for all of four days.

Shit. This guy was going to kill Crowley, wasn’t he?


	2. Chapter 2

—2—

Five months earlier

“…You are a very strange priest.”

Aziraphale blinked, head tilting on a side. Anthony had been waiting for him outside the church, as usual. They had fallen into quick habits, in the past month.

Anthony wouldn’t ever set foot inside the church, but he didn’t mind getting into the nearby building, where Sunday school and other activities were held. He looked much healthier than he had been when Aziraphale had stumbled into him, and no one in the village questioned his presence once Aziraphale had told them he was a ‘friend in need’, never going more into depth than that. The kids liked him, he was very good at telling scary stories.

He was still living in Aziraphale’s flat. Not that Aziraphale minded, he mostly felt guilty about forcing him to sleep on the couch, but Anthony never complained about it, nor shown signs of finding the current arrangement uncomfortable in any way.

They never spoke of the future. The poor man was clearly over the blunt of withdrawal, but that didn’t mean he was already out of the tunnel. Substance abuse could take months, years, to recover from, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to kick him out onto the street just because he seemed to be fine. He took responsibility for Anthony’s well being when he guided the man into his own home, tucked him under a metaphorical wing, instead of letting authorities taking care of him, and he was going to see it to the very end.

Besides, Anthony was a perfectly courteous flat mate. He cleaned up after himself, he helped with rent, bills and groceries —despite Aziraphale’s attempts to persuade him that there was no need—, and he would welcome Aziraphale home with meals ready whenever he was busy with his job. He was also cuttingly smart, whimsically witty, and generally a delight to be around.

Not all members of his congregation seemed to share Aziraphale’s opinion about Anthony. They’d never say anything bad about him, not in front of Aziraphale at the very least, but he knew that some people were suspicious of him. Or plainly did not like him. Too loud, too brash, always left the young ones over excited with his scary stories or the funny little games he came up with on the spot.

They didn’t have the luck to be in close quarters with Anthony, though. They never had the pleasure of sinking into a thick discussion about the merits of musicals while drinking tea, or glancing at the stars from the roof of the apartment complex and read poetry in turns, like they were born to do so. They never snorted milk out of their noses in a fit of giggles when Anthony would crack out one of his teasing jokes, and they never bantered with him about Aziraphale’s tastes in literature as they washed the dishes.

They, very simply, did not know Anthony. Aziraphale was starting to, and what he saw, he liked quite a lot. There was something to him— A feel that could not be put into words. Something conniving and yet earnest.

A trickster who did not want to actually hurt.

Not that Aziraphale ever expressed these feelings, this impression, out loud. Through the years he had grown to be a good judge of character, it was one of the few things he’d count as a good quality when thinking about himself. And Anthony wasn’t a bad man. Shifty, but genuine at the same time. But he kept this to himself. Most people did not— Appreciate, being laid bare by Aziraphale’s generally right impressions after a few exchanges of words.

“Why do you say so?” he asked as he stepped up to Anthony’s side, the both of them directed back to the flat.

“You gave condoms to those kids?” Anthony replied, tilting an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses. “You hold _sex ed classes_. Which priest _does_ that?”

“Well, I do,” Aziraphale replied, frowning just slightly. “A failure of the educational system, if you ask me. And of squeamish parents. These teens left to their own devices, _honestly_— I’d much rather have them know about consent, risks, and safety. Someone has to.”

He could tell that Anthony was looking at him with intensity, even through the dark lenses. It was a shame he would only take those off when they were in the apartment. He had such beautiful eyes, of an amber shade Aziraphale had never seen before, almost golden when hit by the light in the right way. Anthony’s pupils weren’t fully black, just a shade or two darker than his irises, and not fully round either. He cited some kind of rare eye condition as the cause of that, and his need to wear sunglasses when outside.

Another thing that, may God forgive him for his greed, only Aziraphale had the luck to experience.

And Anthony would often do that. Just stare at Aziraphale with a flat look on his face that was hard to decipher. As if he was trying to dismantle Aziraphale like he was a three-dimensional puzzle.

“Weird, weird priest,” he then declared, a tilted smile opening on his face. “Don’t the— _Head offices_ frown upon this sort of thing?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “They don’t care about what one lonely priest does in a tiny village south of London. And even if they did, _I_ wouldn’t care about the opinion of any— Head office. This is faith we are talking about, not some kind of— Big corporation.”

Anthony’s smile widened, turning almost in a grin. “Organised religions _are_ big corporations, Father.”

“I know.” Aziraphale heaved a sigh. “Still. I disagree with certain policies, but I believe in the core of the ideology, and I will keep doing things my own way to uphold the ideology, not the business built upon it. I’m here to serve the people at the bottom, not those who stand at the top.”

Anthony’s cheeks were going to break, if he kept smiling like that. “Weird priest,” he repeated, clearly delighted.

The way he said it, it was a compliment. Aziraphale tried not to get too pleased about that, as they went back up to his flat.

—

Four months earlier

Crowley had taken the chance to snoop around, the first time Aziraphale had left him alone in the flat.

There wasn’t much to see, granted. It was a modest apartment, not a lot of space— But all of the shelves sitting with no apparent rhyme or reason against the one wall free of doors or a kitchenette, crammed against one another, were literally choke-full of books. Crowley had curiously peered at the spines, stunned in finding a _lot_ of titles that hardly seemed to belong in the home of a priest. He had been particularly surprised about the rich collection of Marquis de Sade’s works, and the positively ancient copy of The Decameron.

(Crowley had read one of the first drafts of that. Good stuff. Clever man, that Boccaccio.)

And they were hardly the only books that would probably make many members of the clergy gasps as they clutched nonexistent pearls (or existent rosaries). It also came as not much of a surprise, because Aziraphale had shown himself to be extremely cultured and well spoken, in possession of a vivacious intellect. It made Crowley wonder how a guy that could’ve easily made a prestigious career in academics ended up as a priest in this tiny village.

He had found something interesting, in the organised clutter of Aziraphale’s living room. There were little knick-knacks along the shelves, in front of the books, objects that probably had specific histories attached to them. And one, single picture.

There were no pictures in Aziraphale’s home. No photo albums. Just that one frame, pushed in the darkest corner of the shelf with a fine layer of dust on the glass. As if that picture was there more as an obligation than anything else.

Crowley had looked at it, of course. He was a Demon, after all. He blew the dust away, and stared.

It was a picture of a clearly younger Aziraphale, posing in what seemed to be a garden. He looked pretty much the same, except with less age lines etched into his face. He wasn’t alone. There was a woman by his side, which had to be his mother. They looked very alike, the both of them plump and with heads of a blond so light it looked white. The man that Crowley assumed was Aziraphale’s father looked wildly different instead, short and thin, with dark hair cut in almost a buzzcut. There was also a woman who seemed to be older than Aziraphale, sporting dark hair but his same blue-gray eyes, and a teen girl by his mother’s side, also with dark hair in their father’s dark gray eyes.

It had to be Aziraphale’s family. There were all the little details that made the blood link undeniable.

There was also a strange, thick coldness to it.

Aziraphale was smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His father looked rigid, and his mother wary. What Crowley assumed had to be Aziraphale’s older sister had a severe air to her, as if she considered the taking of a family picture a waste of time. The younger girl wore a smile that seemed slightly alarmed.

It wasn’t a pleasant picture, all in all. It was hardly a wonder it had been covered in dust.

Crowley put it back, but he kept going back to it, to look at Aziraphale’s father. He had something familiar that Crowley couldn’t quite pin-point.

The snooping had happened, and the curiosity had been tickling at Crowley’s brain ever since. Finally, that night, as Aziraphale seemed to be in quite high spirits to the point of accepting to share a beer with Crowley, he had asked.

“I’ve been wondering— What’s up with your name? It’s rather— Uncommon.”

Aziraphale’s hand stopped mid-air for a second, and then he took a methodical sip out of his glass.

“My parents liked to pick— Biblical names. Aziraphale is a minor angel that appears only in very specific, rare editions of the Old Testament that are usually in possession of very dedicated collectors.”

He spoke slowly, almost methodically. Even more than he usually did, at least.

Crowley hissed through his teeth. “That’s rough. School mustn’t have been fun.”

“Oh, it was not too bad,” Aziraphale replied, tone a little lighter. “I was enrolled in private schools during the entirety of my youth, so that kind of childish teasing was highly frowned upon. I never minded much, at least having such a strange name works magic as a conversation opener.”

Crowley chuckled, but then pondered upon what Aziraphale just said, taking a sip of his half of the bottle, that subtly refilled in little increments whenever Aziraphale wasn’t looking.

“What’s your last name?” he asked, hit by a sudden thought. Aziraphale’s hand froze again, and the silence stretched. He heaved a tiny sigh, before replying.

“Fell.”

“…Your parents called you _Aziraphale Fell_? Did they _hate_ you?”

Aziraphale’s mouth curled in what could’ve been either a brief smile or grimace. It was hard to tell.

“Wait— Fell, as in the Fell family? _That_ Fell?”

Lips pursed, Aziraphale nodded once. Crowley gaped at him.

“Are you shitting me? What are you doing _here_?” Crowley snapped, disbelieving.

That finally explained the strange familiarity of the man in the picture. Crowley had dealt with Jeremy Fell once, about twenty years prior, in a whole affair of bribery and corruption. Right bastard, that one, and not the fun kind.

What was Aziraphale even doing in this tiny village, working as a priest? The guy came from _money_. He could’ve lived a spoiled, pampered life, literally throwing bills in a fire each and every day until his death, and not even cause a dent in his family’s wealth.

That did explain some things, though. Namely how Aziraphale managed to be this _holy_ without apparently much effort. On top of being kind to the depths of his heart, the man had to know humility on a deep level. To live in the way he did despite his origins, in a tiny flat, just scraping by and still giving as much as he could to others— It really was no wonder, not anymore.

“Language, dear boy.”

He sounded very displeased. Crowley’s mind was racing a mile a minute. Clearly, there was a whole lot of backstory that Aziraphale was silently sitting on, there. How had this creature even spawned from the seed of such a cold, cruel piece of shit as Jeremy Fell? That had to be some kind of cosmic joke—

_Ah-ah, God, funny. Not._

“Sorry. I guess it’s really not any of my business, is it?” Crowley said delicately, holding out a silent, little olive branch. Aziraphale relaxed immediately.

“That is quite alright, dear. You’re hardly the first person that has reacted with surprise upon discovering my— Blood relations,” he sniffed primly, taking another tiny sip, and then glancing at Crowley with his gray-blue eyes.

They were very pretty gray-blue eyes, Crowley thought distantly.

“What about yours? A last name for a last name, seems fair.”

“…We are ridiculous, aren’t we?” Crowley commented with a crooked grin. “I’ve been squatting in your place for two months and we don’t even know each other’s full names, yet.”

“You haven’t been _squatting_, my dear boy—“

“Couch surfing, then.”

“—You are a full blown room mate, at this point, which reminds me we should actually get you a proper bed—“

Crowley groaned “I’m fine with the couch, _Father_.”

“—And you aren’t answering my question.”

Crowley let out a huff. “…Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley. Pleased to meet you.”

Aziraphale blinked. “What does the J stands for?”

“Jennifer.”

“It does _not_.”

“Jean-Claude.”

“Anthony Jean-Claude Crowley— And you tell me _my_ name is a mouthful? Wait— You are lying, aren’t you.”

Crowley snickered. “I won’t tell you. Guess.”

The rest of the evening went by in a flurry of J names as Crowley got just the right amount of drunk on self-refilling beer and Aziraphale was too engrossed, a bit tipsy, in guessing names rapid-fire to notice, the matter of families brushed aside.

But Crowley took that information, and tucked it away for later.

—

Three months earlier

“I found a place.”

Aziraphale looked up from his book and blinked like an owl. Anthony was looming over him just slightly, from behind the sofa’s backrest, his sleek smartphone in hand.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh— Right, I guess I forgot to tell you,” Anthony muttered, vaguely apologetic. “I’ve been looking into getting myself a place to stay. I can’t keep leeching off of you.”

Oh.

Aziraphale worked his throat, promptly stifling the vague sense of disappointment he could feel rising from the depths of his stomach.

“You are not _leeching off,_ dear boy. If anything, I’m the one to blame, not having even a guest room for you—“

Anthony rolled his amber eyes. “Not this again,” he sighed. “I don’t mind the couch. It’s a comfortable couch. But we are both grown men, and we both need our own spaces. I’m— Grateful for your help, Aziraphale, I really am—“ and Aziraphale knew he meant it, because Anthony rarely called him by his name, if ever. It was usually just ‘Father’, said with a vague undertone of sneer that, somehow, felt more like fondness than something Aziraphale ought to be offended by.

“I hope you know that I am very grateful, but I don’t feel comfortable weighing down on you like this anymore,” Anthony finished softly.

Aziraphale patted the couch, and waited for Anthony to sit down, long legs crossing and amber eyes firmly fixed on Aziraphale, before he spoke.

“You are not ‘weighing me down’. You never had been, and you never will—“ he started, gentle. “—But I do understand that you need your space. I just want to make sure you don’t feel in any way obligated to do this. You can stay for as long as you need it, my dear boy.”

Anthony smiled his crooked, small smile he usually reserved for Aziraphale. “I don’t feel obligated. I know you’d let me stay here forever, if only I asked. But— I need to get my space back.”

Aziraphale smiled. Anthony was such a brave fighter, steadfast even in the face of what had even led them to meet in the first place. It was a pleasure, seeing him taking such big steps.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, honest, still stifling that disquiet something in his insides. “Where are you going to go? London? I imagine that you’d favor big cities over sleepy village such as—“

Anthony did not even let him finish, looking at him funnily. “What? Why would I?” he asked, confused. “There’s that cottage down Rosy Street— It might need a bit of maintenance, but the couple who used to go there during the summer put it on the market for a pretty competitive price. It was a steal, honestly.”

“…Oh,” Aziraphale replied softly, something warm blooming in his chest. “I— That sounds jolly good, my dear. When are you moving?”

“I’m not quite sure yet. Probably by the start of next week— Just need some time to do some cleaning. They left the furniture, so I’m already covered on that front.”

Aziraphale kind of wanted to ask how could Anthony afford it. Anthony seemed to be able to afford a lot of things. He wore nice clothes, and had that vintage Bentley that was probably expensive to maintain, and sneaked behind Aziraphale’s back to pay his bills, his rent and his groceries as often as he could, despite Aziraphale’s protests.

Maybe he also came from a wealthy family, Aziraphale had never asked. He felt it would be unfair to do so, when he would be very reticent to share details about his own family situation. Maybe he ended up with his substance abuse issue exactly due to that. Aziraphale had seen so many of his peers with wealth at their backs burning themselves to ashes back during his boarding school years. It wouldn’t be surprising.

But he never asked, and Crowley never offered an explanation. There were, simply, some things you just don’t speak about.

“I’m glad to hear it. If you need any help—“

“I know. Thank you.”

They went back to their activities in a relaxed silence, Aziraphale to his book, and Anthony to his phone. But Aziraphale wasn’t really reading.

He felt lulled in a strong sense of warmth, and vaguely jittery. For an instant he had been terrified out of his mind that Anthony would leave, never to be seen again— But he was moving in, instead. Just a five minutes walk away from Aziraphale’s flat.

He did not ponder about why hearing that made him so happy. There were quite a lot of things he had been pushing down in the dark corner of his mind, in the past few months. The idea of even trying to discern the reason behind his happiness joined them.

—

Crowley sank into the couch and took a deep breath.

The air was a bit stale, but it did not tickle and prickle as the air in Aziraphale’s apartment did.

He would’ve gladly stayed longer, observed more in close quarters, if he could— But being constantly in Aziraphale’s apartment, in Aziraphale’s _presence_, was starting to take a toll on him. Getting his own place seemed like the most logical course of action.

And he knew that the priest would be over, often and for long hours, because it was exactly what Crowley was planning to make happen. But he also knew Aziraphale was the kind of thoughtful person that would make sure to never overstay his welcome, and with enough breaks in between, Crowley was sure he won’t be able to unconsciously holy-fy the cottage, too.

Also, Crowley needed a place to relax. One of the most difficult things he had to do in the past three months had been keeping his eyes hidden. Crowley was used to shifting and tweaking his corporation as he deemed right, depending on the situation, but his eyes were his weak spot. He simply seemed unable to shift them fully into something more human, of a more common color. That golden amber and the not properly round, less black like an abyss you could get lost in, pupils were the limits he seemed able to push. And it was _tiring_.

So he let his eyes shift back to normal, melting on his couch with a moan. Well, not entirely _his_ couch— The old couple that lived in that cottage for maybe a couple of weeks a year hadn’t had any intention to sell it. But there were hardly things the Demon couldn’t convince humans to do. So, the cottage went on sale, with all that was contained in it.

He told Aziraphale he would go start on the cleaning, while the priest held the usual Sunday sermon, so he had to get onto it. He had no doubt that Aziraphale would come knocking as soon as he could, to offer his help, so Crowley needed to do the sort of adjustments that required a very demonic touch before any human eye ran the risk of seeing it happen. He jumped on his feet, and got to work.

A good chunk of of the things contained in the cottage would find a way back to the old owners. He was a jerk, but not that _much_ of a jerk, and when he could feel that some items might have a history attached to them he made sure to send them back. It didn’t take long to spot those things and make them go, so he moved onto the furniture next. He had grimaced when he first saw the style. Rococo wasn’t nowhere near Crowley’s tastes, so he went around vaguely turning his index finger in the air, shifting plush chairs and golden bed headboards in something much more modern, the colors muted. The bathroom acquired an excessively big glass shower box, and dark blue sleek tiles. The kitchen shaped itself in an open space with a central isle, walls lost the flower-y wallpaper and acquired a more rustic feeling to them. Moquettes disappeared, leaving space to a luxurious parquet.

He nodded to himself, satisfied, as he made the rounds room to room to admire his handy work. Perfect.

The only thing that had been left untouched was the beautiful black grand piano that had been sitting in a corner of the living room under a sheet that smelled stale until Crowley revealed it. He had debated if he should also send that back to the old owners, but he could feel a coldness around the instrument. It was clearly kept there more as a status symbol than anything else, and it likely hadn’t been played for years, so he spitefully decided to keep it. Maybe he could pick up some piano playing, he never tried it before.

The gardens also stayed untouched, the greenery was— Nice. Maybe he’d take care of it, too, at a later date, but for now he contentedly let it be.

Exactly as he had predicted, Aziraphale arrived a couple of hours later, dressed in everyday clothing and holding a bottle of champagne with a small grin, when Crowley opened the door to him.

“How is the cleaning going?” he asked, as Crowley stepped aside to let him in.

“I’m pretty much done, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I feared,” Crowley replied easily, guiding the priest toward the kitchen, first. Aziraphale blinked repeatedly, as he took it in.

“This looks very— Modern. I’ve spoken with the Smiths only once, to be fair, but I didn’t peg them as the types to go with this kind of style,” he commented, light, as Crowley took the bottle of champagne off his hands (it had a little bow on the neck. Of course) to put it in a tin bucket that hadn’t originally been anywhere in the pantry, also putting in some ice that hadn’t originally been in the empty freezer.

“Surprised me as well, but I won’t complain.”

“Oh, this is quite your— Flair, isn’t it? Suits you rather well.”

Crowley smiled. “Indeed. Let me show you around, while your thoughtful gift cools off a bit.”

“Oh, it’s nothing—“ Aziraphale huffed, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Really. Just picked it up on my way here, it’s nothing fancy— I just thought we ought to celebrate a bit.“

“And we will. C’mon, you can tell me what you think,” Crowley gingerly splayed a hand in the middle Aziraphale’s back, to guide him toward the rest of the house. Aziraphale kept smiling, following pliant.

It didn’t take long, the cottage was far bigger than Aziraphale’s tiny, busy flat, but nowhere near enormous. The priest hummed and awed in all the right places, mostly in polite interest, although there was clear happiness boiling under the surface, but his eyes _lit up_, when they landed on the grand piano in the corner of the living room.

“Oh, my— Is this yours?” he asked almost in an exhale as he stepped by the instrument’s side, fingertips brushing the closed lid. Crowley shrugged.

“No, I don’t know how to play— They left it behind. Too much of a hassle to move, they said.”

“Oh, what a shame…” Aziraphale murmured, his hand sliding down toward the fall board. “…Can I?”

Tilting his head on a side, Crowley only nodded once, eyes back to the amber color interestingly staring. Aziraphale revealed the keyboard, and then delicately pressed on almost all the keys in rapid succession with surprisingly dexterous fingers. His nose curled.

“…This sounds like it needs some tuning,” he said, almost distracted, before seemingly minding himself. “Oh, but I’d imagine you won’t need to bother with it, if you don’t play. You could probably sell it, it seems like a fine instrument.”

“…Do you play?” Crowley tentatively offered, a brief smile pulling at Aziraphale’s lips.

“I used to. I haven’t in years—“ He let out a chuckle. “Not a lot of space for a grand piano in my flat, I’m afraid.”

His fingers were resting on the keys almost longingly, and Crowley was hit by the sudden, burning need of seeing those plump fingers flying on the keyboard again.

“Play me something.”

Aziraphale blinked, just a tiny hint of pink rising to his cheeks. “Goodness me, I don’t know if I— It’s been so long since the last time—“

“C’mon—“ Crowley nudged, a little plaintive, finally approaching the piano as well. “I’m sure you would do fine.”

Aziraphale hesitated just a bit more, shifting his weight from foot to foot, before something determined rose on his expression, and he sat on the bench, adjusting it in a comfortable spot.

“Let’s see—“ he said, low, fingers splayed on the keys. Silence stretched for some seconds, and then he started, carefully, almost afraid.

He went slow, at first, keys pressed hesitantly— And then he seemingly started to get the hang of it, taking on a rhythm. It didn’t take long for Crowley to recognize the song, and he hummed.

“Not to your tastes?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat indecisive, but still playing. Crowley shook his head and smiled, as he leaned over the piano and gingerly rested his elbows on it, head tilted on a side.

“Oh, no, I _love_ it,” He said, voice lowering. He revelled in the slightly more intense pink rising to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Chopin, always a good pick.”

Aziraphale smiled silently, clearly pleased, as the notes of the No. 2 of Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 filled the living room. They didn’t speak until some seconds after the song had come to a close. Aziraphale’s fingers lingered on the keyboard.

“What were you afraid of? That was great,” Crowley finally said, still leaning on the piano. “Although you are right, it does sound a bit off tune.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear boy. Muscle memory is quite a marvellous thing. Too bad this piano had been neglected so.”

“Maybe I’ll get someone to come in, tune it—“

“Goodness, what for?”

Crowley stared at him, eyebrow tilting. “So _you_ can play it?”

It seemed like Aziraphale had every intention to spend most of his time very pink in the face, that day.

“Well I— I really can’t you ask to—“

“It’s a good thing _I’m_ asking, then,” Crowley interrupted him. “I’ll go get the champagne. Play me something else?”

Aziraphale squirmed in the seating, but did not rise any more nominal protest. He took a moment to think, and while Crowley went back in the kitchen to grab the bottle and two glasses, he heard the cheerful music pleasingly flowing in from the other room. He stopped behind Aziraphale, almost hungrily staring at his fingers as he played Mozart’s Rondo alla turca, tongue sticking a bit out while he focused.

He played incredibly well, for someone who declared they hadn’t touched a piano in years. It was mesmerising.

“Cheers,” Crowley offered with a curled smile once the second song was over, handing a flute glass, bubbles fizzing to the surface. Aziraphale accepted it with a simple smile, and the glasses clinked cheerfully in the silent toast.

Had Crowley been thinking, in that moment, he would’ve realized something.

He was supposedly working to do something that would ruin Aziraphale’s soul, except, maybe, Aziraphale was ruining _him_. But Crowley was too busy basking dopily in the soft, content smile Aziraphale wore as he sipped the store-bought champagne that somehow tasted far better than it should have, to really register that realization hanging in the air.

He had a professional come tune the piano the next day.

—

Two months earlier

“…Thank you so much for covering for Margaret on such a short notice, dear boy.”

At his side, Anthony tilted his head with a smile as they walked down the street, surpassing the apartment complex to go toward the cottage, instead.

“No biggie, Father. You know I like to look after those little hellions.”

He knew. Anthony seemed to have a— _Gift_, when it came to kids. Despite his stubborn, silent refusal to put even a toe in the church, he did not seem to mind in the slightest spending long afternoons and even longer Sundays in the adjacent building, helping with Aziraphale’s unconventional classes and other activities aimed at keeping the small village’s community close to one another. The younger kids _adored_ Anthony, because Anthony never held back when it came to making them laugh, to tell them about the stars and galaxies with a fondness that enraptured the kids, as if Anthony had been _there_ when outer space was born. He read them the sort of dark fables children loved to listen and think about in the depth of the night with a little thrill running down their young spines. He taught them new games that would surely drive the parents up a wall by the end of the next week, while Aziraphale pretended to look another way.

He definitely silently adored them back, looking satisfied whenever the children would wave at him as they went back to their parents, even taking them for rides in his Bentley, surprisingly obedient kids waiting patiently for their turn. No one but the children and Aziraphale himself was ever allowed in the Bentley, so they all knew it was A Big Deal.

He had covered for Margaret. It was probably the fiftieth time he covered for Margaret. Aziraphale had lost count.

He wasn’t even sure Anthony and Margaret hadn’t simply come to the mutual agreement of leaving that particular role to Anthony, so she could go baking instead, at that point.

“Still!” he replied, cheerful “I’m very grateful, you are so kind! May God bless you, dear!”

He wanted Anthony to feel appreciated, because he was. Aziraphale appreciated him _very_ much. But, to his surprise, something tense seemed to rise on Anthony’s expression.

“T-thanks—“ he stammered, his voice clipped. Aziraphale stopped walking.

“…Have I offended you, dear boy?” he asked softly, when Anthony noticed and also stopped, turning around. He still looked strained.

“No. No it’s— Fine. Everything’s fine,” he replied.

It clearly wasn’t. They resumed their walk, in silence.

Aziraphale pondered about the brief exchange, and realized something— He was used to impart fleeting blessings on the members of his congregation whenever they went to him in need of help, to ask something, or simply to exchange some words. They were sincere blessings, that were usually appreciated.

He had never said that to Anthony, before. Maybe unconsciously, understanding that Anthony’s relationship with the idea of faith had to be— Rocky. They never really touched upon the reason why Anthony wouldn’t come into the church, despite the fact he didn’t seem to mind just listening from the outside in the slightest. Aziraphale felt it wasn’t his place to pry, hoping Anthony would say on his own volition, if he ever felt the need to do so.

But he had no idea about how Anthony felt, regarding faith and Aziraphale’s own role. He took a deep breath, and resolved to be more careful. Unwanted blessings were, probably, somewhat offensive.

Anthony’s shoulders seemed to sink, going relaxed. By the time they reached the cottage, the moment of tenseness was gone.

—

One month earlier

Crowley threw the pebble, and waited. Nothing happened, so he threw another.

“Lucas, dear, you have to stop this, Mrs. Robinson won’t be happy that— Oh.”

A shit eating grin rose on Crowley’s mouth, his head tipped upward “Good morning!”

“Good morning to you, Anthony,” Aziraphale replied with a smile, leaning out his window and craning his neck down. “Is my doorbell not working?”

“Oh, no, works just fine. It was just funnier this way.”

Aziraphale huffed, rolling his eyes, but he was clearly amused. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

As if they didn’t see each other on a daily basis. Still grinning, Crowley pushed his hands in his pockets.

“Get dressed, put on something nice. We are going out.”

At that request that tasted more like a soft order, Aziraphale blinked, head tilting on a side. But he said nothing for long seconds, and simply gave a brief nod, before retreating in his flat. Crowley leaned back against the Bentley, and waited.

The priest emerged from the main entrance about five minutes later, wearing a nice dark gray suit complete with a waistcoat and a tartan tie that actually went very well with it. It looked new, something Aziraphale definitely did not use on a daily basis by any stretch of the imagination. He tilted an eyebrow at Crowley, as if silently asking ‘now what?’, and Crowley opened the passenger door for him with a gallant little bow. Clearly amused and intrigued, Aziraphale let out a chuckle before sliding in the passenger seat.

There was something that was causing a deep curling of pleased warmth in Crowley’s belly at the absolute, unshaken trust Aziraphale put in him. He did not even ask before complying with Crowley’s request, following him in the car.

But he was staring, now, a soft smile on his mouth.

“…Well?” he asked, peering curiously at Crowley as he turned the engine on with a positively smug smile. “What is this all about?”

He also peered at Crowley’s own clothing, a deeply black two pieces suit with a crimson button-up shirt opened a bit on his sharp collarbone, no tie. He still looked sleekly elegant.

“Happy birthday,” Crowley said, lips curling in almost a grin, as Aziraphale let out a soft, little ‘_oh_!’ “I’m buying you lunch. I won’t hear a no.”

“Goodness—“ Aziraphale exhaled, pushing a hand on his chest as they took the road to leave the village. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday since— Well. It’s been a while. I— Thank you, my dear— How did you even find out?”

“Remember when you couldn’t find your wallet, but it _magically_ reappeared on the kitchen table?”

At that, Aziraphale laughed. It was a nice sound.

“You sneaky little thing,” he added, clearly amused, and then looked out the car. The trees were a triumph or red, orange and yellows, as they marched deeply into the fall season. “Where are we going? And when is _your_ birthday, Anthony?”

“It’s a surprise. And December 31st.”

He picked that date himself, obviously. Mostly because he liked it. There was something— Deeply symbolical about the last day of a year, he felt. Although he couldn’t quite explain _what_.

“Oh, we will celebrate yours soon, then,” Aziraphale said, sounding clearly like someone who was already plotting for the future. Somewhat, Crowley felt eager at the idea of finding out what would Aziraphale organise for his ‘birthday’.

The priest seemed to settle into a pleased silence, after that, depositing his hands in his lap as he looked at the changing scenery outside. They were leaving the small village behind, directed toward a slightly bigger neighbouring one. It had taken Crowley a bit of time and a lot of reading online reviews, before picking the place, but as they stopped in front of it he launched an anticipatory look at Aziraphale.

It seemed to be one of the few small flaws in Aziraphale’s holy armour, food. Not that the priest ever indulged, especially considering he hardly lived in luxury, but Crowley had observed. He had observed a _lot_. And there was something, there, in the way Aziraphale would savour every single bite of the delicious lasagna that Mrs. Barnes gave him, eyes closing in silent appreciation. In the way he’d gingerly pick up one of the cupcakes at the monthly communal bakery sale and eat it with tiny bites, carefully liking frosting off his fingers when he thought no one was looking.

It was adorable. And it was a flaw.

(Not that Crowley considered it one. Why make food so delicious, and then making the act of enjoying it a _sin_? It was silly. But Gluttony _was_ a sin, and thus, a possible flaw.)

And, he kept telling himself, flaws could be exploited to find a way in. After all, this is what it was all about, wasn’t it? The only reason Crowley was lingering around, inserting himself in a tiny community, helping out with kids, spending hours and hours with Aziraphale on a daily basis, and generally living a disgustingly normal life. To find the chink in the armour, and rip all that holiness off of the priest.

(He repeated that to himself a _lot_.)

The restaurant screamed _‘I’m expensive!!!_’ already from the front. And the reviews had been overwhelmingly positive, praising the five course meal and wine tasting menu, especially. And, since money was no object, to Crowley, reservations had been made. He was going to spoil the hell out of Aziraphale, and enjoy every decadent second of it.

Except… Aziraphale’s expression had shifted into something carefully flat, rather than excited, or insecure, or flattered, or any range of emotions Crowley had expected of him. Confused, suddenly feeling like the rug had been ripped off from under his feet, Crowley parked and circled the Bentley to open the door for him. As he climbed down, Aziraphale’s face was still deliberately expressionless.

“…Is something wrong?” Crowley asked, softly, as they lingered near the Bentley. That seemed to finally shake Aziraphale, and a smile that tasted of coercion rose on his mouth.

“Not at all! I was just thinking— Well, I’m very grateful, but this feels a bit _much_, it must’ve been difficult to even make a reservation—“

“Aziraphale.”

“And— As I said, I’m _very_ grateful, but dear boy, there was no need—“

“_Aziraphale_—“ Crowley repeated, and took one of his hands. It was very warm. Aziraphale fell silent. “What’s wrong?”

The priest did not reply immediately, eyes quickly glancing down at their conjoined fingers a couple of times, and avoiding Crowley’s when he looked up. He nervously bit his lower lip, side-eyeing the restaurant.

“I don’t have— Good memories. Of these sorts of establishments,” he forced out in a low voice, so strained it was clear it cost him a lot to even say. He worked his throat, and Crowley ran a thumb on his knuckles unconsciously.

“…Ok. Let’s go somewhere else.”

Aziraphale froze, and then turned back to him with eyes slightly wide.

“Excuse me?”

“Let’s go somewhere else,” Crowley repeated, slowly, and in front of Aziraphale’s mouth opening, ready to protest, he held his free hand up. “It’s your birthday. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“—Anthony,” there was something— Indefinitely _charged_, in the way Aziraphale uttered his human name. “You cannot be serious— You must’ve gone through a lot of trouble to even reserve a table—“

“It’s just a reservation,” Crowley interjected, already eyeing google maps on his phone. “It’s not the end of the world. Look, there’s a sushi place nearby with a good rating. Looks more— Homely. Have you ever had sushi?”

“…Can’t say I have,” Aziraphale replied, sounding slightly breathless. Crowley gasped almost theatrically.

“_How_— I can’t believe you! That’s basically a crime!” he exclaimed, causing Aziraphale to finally huff a laugh. “Do you feel adventurous, then?”

“I think I do, yes,” Aziraphale said, clearly far more relaxed, eyes lit up with something warm and a genuine smile curving his mouth. Crowley went to put the hand in which he was still holding his phone onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, to guide him, before remembering that he was still holding his hand, Aziraphale’s warm fingers trustingly resting between Crowley’s. He let it go gingerly, and Aziraphale looked down at his own palm briefly, as if he expected the secret meaning of life and the universe as a whole to suddenly be written on it.

“…Over here,” Crowley said with a soft, little cough, putting a fleeting touch on Aziraphale’s upper arm. The priest followed silently.

He had to pay a fine for cancelling his reservation, but, again, money was no object to Crowley, and he did so via his phone as Aziraphale puzzled over the menu inside the Japanese restaurant. The place _was_ homely, the prices significantly less steep than Crowley’s first choice, the kind of place you could see groups young adults eat at, bickering about who would get the last salmon nigiri. They looked out of place, in their elegant suits.

Crowley couldn’t give less of a flying fuck about that. He explained sushi at the best of his capacity, but in the end, Aziraphale trusted in him to order for the both of them. He explained how to hold the chopsticks, but when Aziraphale tightened his grip too much for the third time, causing the chopstick to roll out of his hand, he reached over the table and carefully adjusted his grip causing Aziraphale’s ears to go distinctly pink. Although it seemed to work, for the most part, since the chopsticks were dropped only one last time during the whole meal.

He laughed when Aziraphale innocently put a glob of wasabi in his mouth and promptly started coughing, eyes watering. Aziraphale glared at him with what looked distinctly like a pout as he fanned himself, but then started laughing as well.

Luckily, sushi seemed to be appreciated, and they ordered more once the first course had disappeared very quickly. The priest seemed to be very fond of salmon sashimi especially, after a first impression that made him shiver, and ordered two more servings on his own.

They got out of the restaurant far fuller than they could’ve been had they eaten at the place Crowley had reserved, shoulders playfully bumping as Crowley teased Aziraphale about the wasabi accident a bit more, causing the priest to let out fake indignant huffs and then chuckle, ruining the effect. During the ride back they kept the windows of the Bentley open all the way, the day out-of-season-ly warm. At some point during the meal Aziraphale’s tie had been undone, hanging from his neck like a tartan snake, and his shirt was now revealing a hint of collarbone, cloth flapping in the wind. The Bentley proposed Bohemian Rhapsody, because of course it did, and Aziraphale surprised him when he started singing along. Maybe tipsy on too much sake, an impromptu challenge of who would sing louder was started, until the both of them were just screaming the lyrics at the top of their lungs as they traversed the road full of red trees, and then melt in laughter once it was over.

When they softly braked in front of the apartment complex, Crowley wished there would be more road to cover. Wished they never had to stop, just kept driving and singing and laughing side by side. But he stopped, regardless.

Aziraphale did not get off the Bentley, even when the engine spluttered off.

“…Anthony, thank you,” he said, smiling, eyes pointed at his own hands curled in his lap. “This was the best birthday I ever had.”

Crowley blinked, and tilted an eyebrow at him, vaguely disbelieving.

“…Really? It was just a lunch—“

“It wasn’t,” Aziraphale interject gently, warm gray-blue eyes turning to him. “It wasn’t just a lunch. It was— A _good_ lunch. And a new experience, and amazing company, and— _Kindness_,” eyes moved about, as he went clearly pensive for some seconds. “You are a good man, Anthony.”

Crowley squirmed and sniffed pointedly, hoping the warmth he felt on his cheeks was _not_ a blush. A silence followed, and then Aziraphale moved on his seat in an abrupt way Crowley couldn’t quite discern. He seemed to freeze, as if he wanted to do— _Something_, but then went back on his decision.

“…Will I see you tomorrow?” He asked, softly, and somehow, it felt as if there was far more meaning behind that sentence than it should’ve been possible.

“Of course,” Crowley immediately replied, giving a brief smile. “See you tomorrow.”

One last smile, and then Aziraphale was on the sidewalk, inside the apartment complex. Crowley drove back to his cottage feeling almost out of his own body.

_You are a good man._

He wasn’t. He really, _really_ wasn’t.

He decided to open a bottle of rosé, once back at the cottage, because he suddenly felt the need to drink himself stupid. As he poured the first glass, heavily hunched over the kitchen isle, his phone sitting on the marble countertop buzzed. He would’ve paid it no mind, except for the name flashing on top of the alert.

He got a text from Aziraphale, and a long one, too. He could _see_ him, tongue sticking out just slightly, as he painstakingly composed it with his ridiculously ancient flip phone.

‘_I forgot to tell you something. It’s probably silly of me, considering I just turned forty-six… It’s probably childish, but it’s the truth: You are the best friend I ever had, Anthony. I’m very glad we’ve met, and that you had the strength to get back on your feet. I consider myself lucky to be by your side._

_Thank you again for today. It meant a lot _: )’

Crowley stared at it. At the ‘_you are the best friend I ever had_’ and the silly little face at the end, at the ridiculousness of writing forty-six in letters instead of making it a bit easier on himself by using numbers. He stared, and he downed the glass in one go. Then he stood, put the bottle in the fridge, and went straight for his bed.

He fell asleep, trying to ignore the knot burning in his chest, painful and not painful at the same time. A tight core of lava with a name that Crowley simply was unable to say, something that he might’ve easily given a meaning to, a long time ago, but that he now found almost alien.

It would be a while, still, before he’d be able to give a name to that feeling.


	3. Chapter 3

—3—

The present

Aziraphale tried to resist the temptation, but in the end, he couldn’t. He peered outside the window. He could see Anthony’s tall and lanky shape down the road, clearly he came on foot this time around.

“I like to think so,” he replied, when Aziraphale asked him, “Do you? Know me?”

It made Aziraphale wonder. There was no doubt that, in the six months and a handful of days since their improbable meeting, Anthony had grown to know Aziraphale on a very deep level, in a way no one else could claim. He probably _did_ know Aziraphale rather well, at that point.

The last six months had been the happiest Aziraphale had ever been, if he had to be honest. He felt as if the two of them had just— _Clicked_, falling side by side like those who had been friends for a lifetime.

But something had shifted— Not between them, no. Inside himself. Since last month, when Anthony had surprised him for his birthday, Aziraphale had felt a distinct feeling he thought long buried weakly writhing in his chest.

And suddenly, everything was much harder to bear.

He had noticed how— Very handsome Anthony was, months prior. He’d have to be blind not to. The man had emerged from a shower still going through the worst of withdrawal symptoms, and yet looked positively like a model. Tall and thin and with strong cheekbones, flaming red, vaguely curly hair cascading to frame his face, and Aziraphale’s brain went scrambling for a second. He recovered, fast, but the fleeting thoughts that would sometimes rise in the back of his mind had never left, since then.

The ‘_look at his beautiful eyes_’, and the ‘_he’s so handsome when he smiles_’, and the ‘_his hands look so pretty_’, and the —very embarrassing— ‘_I want to sink my fingers in his hair_’.

Aziraphale wasn’t as naive as to pretend those thoughts were to be considered impure. They were only thoughts. Despite the role he took himself, despite the white collar he wore, he tended to be a rather unconventional priest. A _weird_ one, as Anthony said. He respected faith, and he loved God, and he was sure that God loved them all, but he would hardly adhere to certain— _Guidelines_, if ever.

Human beings were inherently weak, but it was what was made of that weakness that really mattered, in his opinion. So Aziraphale accepted his slightly embarrassing crush on Anthony, and kept quiet, letting the fleeting thoughts go with the wind without trying too hard to suppress them. He was sure it’d be just a phase.

Except Anthony surprised him for his birthday. Anthony tried to— To offer him something so very nice, and did not seem offended in the slightest when Aziraphale had taken a step back, stomach clutched by old fears, rejecting it. He rolled with it, and gifted Aziraphale with what had been, in utter sincerity, the best birthday of his life. He made him experience something new and beautiful, and he smiled with him, and he sang at the top of his lungs with him before melting into laughter like they were teenagers tasting freedom for the first time.

He held his hand. So briefly, and yet so gently, and the sensation of his thumb running faintly along Aziraphale’s knuckles was seared into his brain like fire.

And suddenly Aziraphale had realized that it wasn’t just a crush anymore, that his feelings for Anthony were developing into something more, like a wave turning into a tsunami. And suddenly the fleeting thoughts lingered, not leaving with the wind anymore. Suddenly he could hardly look away from him. Away from his beautiful amber eyes and his crooked smiles and the strong line of his profile. Aziraphale’s eyes would be dragged like a magnetic force was pulling them, staring at the intense red of Anthony’s soft looking hair and the lines of his collarbone that peeked from under his shirt. He’d stare at the way his clothing hung to his lithe figure and at his legs that seemed to go for _days_ and _good lord_—

He had it bad. He had it _very_ bad.

And Anthony— Anthony did not help the situation. On top of being just naturally charming, there was a— _Willingness_ to him, so to speak. He’d glance at Aziraphale through his eyelashes and tuck his hair back behind an ear with an almost dainty gesture. He’d lean into him so subtly when Aziraphale spoke, like he’d rather not do anything but just sit there, giving his undivided attention to Aziraphale for hours on end. He’d stare with an intense golden gaze, head tilted on a side, and then smile secretively.

He’d lean over the lid, or sit by his side on the bench, their thighs touching, when Aziraphale would play the grand piano in Anthony’s home. He’d listen, and he’d stare, and Aziraphale had the distinct impression he wasn’t the only one that was developing a slight obsession with _hands_.

And all of it was— Dangerous. Very dangerous.

Aziraphale had made a promise in the face of God, and had made a promise to himself. The two weren’t inherently related, except in all the ways they were, and suddenly the stable life Aziraphale had built for himself, the wall he had erected around his soul, so sure it’d protect him, were crumbling like wet sand.

Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Anthony was his friend, and Anthony had been, and might still be, a man in need of help. Aziraphale had taken responsibility, that night of six months prior, and he couldn’t pretend he could just— Sever ties, just like that.

And, more importantly, he didn’t want to.

He never had a friend like him. He, arguably, never had a _friend _in general. He cared for the people of his village, of course he did, they were all dear to his heart—

But ‘friend’ wasn’t a word he threw around so easily. Anthony had gained that honor. And Aziraphale was a selfish egoist that wanted even just a minute more of him, for as long as he could stretch it.

He was toeing a dangerous line, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

And Anthony said “I like to think I do”, when Aziraphale asked him “Do you? Know me?”

Did Anthony know of Aziraphale’s attraction toward him? He must— Anthony was no idiot. And they were hardly young adults going through first tentative attempts to figure out those sorts of feelings. There was an advantage to growing old, in the way it became easier to stop beating around the bush and go straight to the point. The point being that Aziraphale felt undeniably pulled toward Anthony, and Anthony seemed to feel the same way, and they were both standing in front of one another, waiting to see who would take the first step. _If_ they would take the first step.

Aziraphale suddenly felt very much too young and too scared, though, when it came to contemplating that possibility and all the consequences that taking such a step would entail.

Heaving a sigh, he decided to wash the cups they used to drink tea just to give himself something to do. As he was about to put the one Anthony used under the running water, the traitorous thought emerged.

_‘He put his lips right on that spot’_

Aziraphale felt the tips of his ears go hot and hastily put the cup under the water, along with his entire hand.

“…Good lord, Aziraphale, you’re not sixteen. Get a grip.” He muttered to himself, eyes closed and eyebrows scrunched.

Thanks the Heavens, his phone started to ring. He’d welcome any distraction there to pull him away from the gutter, at that point. He closed the water, drying his hands with a dish rag, and then went to answer.

—

“Shit shit shit _fuck_ SHIT!”

The pillow landed against the wall with a very much not satisfying ‘whomp’, and then fell silently on the floor in a shapeless heap. Crowley’s breath was heavy, as he glared at the soft object like it personally offended him.

Nope. Still pissed. Punching and throwing pillows did nothing to help. Maybe he could go out and yell at— Something. There was that poison ivy that kept trying to grow in the garden he’d been actually working at, the _pest_. Maybe if he screamed at it it’d go away, and he’d release some pent-up frustration.

He’d been very angry since that morning. He was just out there, minding his own business, watering his garden with a hose. So much water. For some reason, as he mindlessly watched the stream leaving the hose by painting a cheerful arc in the air, he kept thinking of the sentence ‘_denial isn't just a river in Egypt_’.

He had no idea why. Why would he think that? He had no reason to. No siree.

And then the phone he left propped on the kitchen windowsill crackled and buzzed.

“_Crowley_,” it said. And Crowley jumped, the hose falling off of his hand.

“_Fuck’s sake_— Since you are making the effort of contacting me via phone, make it ring?!”

Whoever was on the other side followed with silence. With a tired sigh, Crowley turned the outdoor tap off and approached the phone.

“What?” he asked, stony.

“_Just checking in. It’s been awfully silent on your side, Crowley,”_ Crowley squinted. It might be Dagon, instead of Hastur. Not that it made much of a change, for his ‘ugh I don’t want to talk to you’ levels. “_Been told you’re working on a priest? How’s that panning out?_”

He did not miss the undertone of sarcasm. He had no doubt that they’d probably laughed at him, down there. Often and with gusto.

“I’m working on it,” he replied, non-committal. “Anything else?”

_“So you’re not giving up yet?”_

“When do I ever give up?” Crowley sneered. “Seriously, you called me for _this_?”

_“It shouldn’t take months to tempt a priest, Crowley.”_

“Yes, if your name is Hastur and you think whispering a sentence or two in someone’s ear counts as a job well done. _I_ do things properly. I’m going to make sure this priest _breaks_.”

A silence followed, and there was an undertone of begrudging respect, when Dagon spoke again.

_“Very well. We will be awaiting updates.”_

The soft crackling noise ended, and Crowley’s forehead collided with the wall.

No. He didn’t want to break Aziraphale. He’d rather break himself, first.

Fuck. Fuck everything and all and FUCK HELL. Crowley was an idiot. A dumbass of the highest caliber. A nitwit, foolish moron.

Why did he had to come up with that lie, that night? Why didn’t he just— Tell Hastur he could go dealing with the police and discorporations, if he thought it was so easy? But _nooo_, Crowley had gone ahead and used the first, quick solution to his issue he could find, and fucked himself royally in the process.

Because now he was sitting there, in the garden of a cottage he’d grown to actually like, in a village with people he sort-of-kinda-maybe-just-a-litte-bit cared for, and with a person he was supposed to literally crush like a bug, who he—

He kicked the wall, and went inside, and tried to let out his rage on whatever innocent item happened to be in his way. Hours went by, items were broken and put back together with a renewed fear of Crowley, but his rage stayed even as he went through every room in search of the one thing that would make him stop being pissed off.

Because he was an idiot, and he drove himself in a corner, and there was this thing in his chest that he poked and prodded at for weeks, unable to understand what it was supposed to _be_. He found himself _googling_ stuff. Like a human teenager.

And what he found— He did not like. At _all_.

He glared at the pillow some more, and stomped in the corridor. He’d go yell at the poison ivy.

But the doorbell rang, and Crowley contemplated the idea of not opening for all of five seconds, before a familiar voice called softly.

“Anthony? Are you alright?” When Crowley didn’t open the door, frozen on the spot, a vaguely perplexed “I can see you through the glass, dear boy,” was added.

Right. Stupid door with the stupid opaque window.

He really didn’t want to see Aziraphale. He was the last person in the world he wanted to see— And also the person he wanted to see the most of all.

_Fuck_, he thought very pointedly, as he opened the door. Aziraphale blinked at him, wearing The Priest Outfit.

Right. It was Sunday. Which meant Crowley must’ve missed Sunday school without even calling, which he hadn’t meant to do because he had not expected to be contacted by downstairs and then proceed to freak out for the rest of the morning.

“Goodness, is something wrong?” Aziraphale asked as he carefully stepped over the threshold. Crowley didn’t need to ask him why he sounded so worried. He knew he must be looking still pretty damn Angry. Or miserable. Or both.

“Got a displeasing phone call,” Crowley grunted, closing the door behind Aziraphale and sulking his way back in the living room. Aziraphale followed after shedding the dark suit jacket e leaving it by the coat hanger, releasing a little hum of understanding. There was a pause, and it was clear that Aziraphale was waiting for him to go into details, but Crowley just added, “Sorry I didn’t tell you I couldn’t make it this morning. It escaped my mind.”

“…That is quite alright, dear. I was mostly worried you might’ve been sick, we are definitely getting into flu season…” Aziraphale replied, pensive. And something dark curled into Crowley’s stomach. Why was Aziraphale always so accommodating? Couldn’t he get angry, every now and then? Couldn’t he try to be a bit easier to hate? Give Crowley a reason to actually want to break his soul as he was supposed to do?

Clearly oblivious to the sinister thoughts nipping at the back of Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale followed, and sat down all prim and proper on the couch, as Crowley slouched back with a scowl. He turned his eyes just slightly, and Aziraphale was giving him a little, sympathetic smile, clearly waiting for Crowley to unload whatever was bothering him on Aziraphale’s shoulders. The dark thing in his stomach let out a small growl.

“I’m not going to— _Confess my sins_, if that’s what you are expecting,” he snapped, and much to his growing irritation, Aziraphale chuckled.

“This is hardly the place for that, dear. And hardly my intention as well. But if you need to vent about anything—“

_Goddamnit, why do you have to be like this?_

“Nothing that concerns you,” Crowley replied, cold, and was satisfied in finally seeing a sign of hesitation on Aziraphale’s expression. Except it wasn’t satisfying at all, and Aziraphale looked more confused than anything else.

“Of course— You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to—“ he said, a small crease appeared between his eyebrows. Concern.

_Stop being like this._

“Exactly,” Crowley added with a tone of finality, and a vague tense silence draped on them. Crowley kept feeling no satisfaction at all about what he was doing, and he kept glancing at the man at his side, waiting for any kind of reaction, any sign of anger or reproach or _anything_—

Except Aziraphale kept silent, and still, and looking kindly concerned, and it was not helping the growing agitation slithering in Crowley’s insides.

Because the realization he had been trying to push against, to suffocate, for the past few days was hanging there, above his head, ready to drop. Because he didn’t want to say _that_ word, not even think it, not ever, and yet Aziraphale’s presence was already making it push from down his throat like bile.

Because he was supposed to be hurting this man, and he couldn’t find a single reason to, and it was driving him up a wall.

And Aziraphale was there, looking at him with those infinitely gentle gray-blue eyes, with his stupid nice face and soft body that looked so warm and huggable, and dumb fluffy hair that Crowley wanted to sink his fingers in, to see what would happen. See if he could tip the priest over that line he’d been toeing for a while.

Crowley was no idiot, he could tell that Aziraphale was attracted to him. He spent an immortal lifetime tempting humans into lust, and he never missed the signs— Except it was more than lust, the way Aziraphale would look at him. It was like some _imitation_ of lust that Crowley couldn’t grasp the meaning of, as if he was trying to read a book with scrambled letters. He could tell there was something familiar in there, but it was garbled enough to make him unable to discern anything out of it.

If he reached over and touched, would he get any reaction? Would he be able to push Aziraphale to sin?

Did he _want_ to push Aziraphale to sin? He really didn’t know anymore. He wasn’t so sure anymore.

With a sigh, Crowley leaned with his elbows on his knees, massaging his eyes. He was so goddamn tired, he just wished he could make everything disappear, even for just five minutes.

“…I think it’ll be for the best if I go,” Aziraphale said softly, interrupting the ever stretching silence. “You are— Clearly not in the mood for company. But if you want to talk, later, you can call me, dear.”

He rose from the couch, and tried to make it to the door, but Crowley grabbed his right wrist, as fast as a snake lunging for its prey. They both froze for a second.

Why did he _do_ that?! What was wrong with him?! He was going to be left alone, exactly as he wanted—

But he didn’t want to be alone, not really. It was storming, inside Crowley, and he needed— Something. Anything.

Anything at all.

Aziraphale was looking at him with slightly wide eyes, his hand stiff. There was a golden ring around his pinky, Crowley had noticed it quite a while ago. He always wore it, and Crowley had now the chance to look at it closely. It looked like— Feathery wings, stretched around Aziraphale’s finger. The cruel irony of it wasn’t lost on Crowley.

“I always wondered about this,” Crowley said flatly, apropos of nothing, still not letting go. Aziraphale seemed to require some instants, before understanding dawned on his slightly alarmed expression.

“Oh, that. It’s a— Gift.”

It was impressively detailed, and looked expensive. Crowley was fairly sure Aziraphale would never wear something given to him by his family, if the pieces he put together through bits of conversation, fleeting expression, and the picture that was left to collect dust in a corner were anything to come by. So, a gift from someone Aziraphale must’ve cared about, or still did care about, enough to wear the ring on a daily basis.

The dark thing inside his stomach shifted and howled, and suddenly this sensation of bitterness enveloped him. He hated it. He hated the idea that Aziraphale was wearing something so significant that wasn’t given to him by Crowley. He hated that he never thought of gifting him with something that he might want to wear everyday.

He hated the fact he felt mesmerized by the hand he was still holding onto. He hated that he couldn’t stop staring at Aziraphale’s fingers when he played the piano for him, about how much he wanted to kiss his knuckles and sink his nose against the skin, and breathe in Aziraphale’s scent. He hated the fact that he wanted to do that for a simple sense of yearning rather than working toward a ruin he supposedly could’ve brought inside Aziraphale’s soul months ago.

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, oh so gently, and Crowley’s fingers tightened around his wrist.

It was so easy. All he had to do was pull a little, lean in just a bit more, and his nose brushed against the soft curve of Aziraphale’s slightly curled pinky.

Aziraphale went very, very still.

Crowley closed his eyes, breathing in. He could feel the scent of the ring. Definitely gold.

He tilted his head just slightly, just enough to push his lips against the warm metal, as if impressing something of his own in it. His fingers relaxed the grip around Aziraphale’s wrist, to softly slide down along his palm, curling gently around it. Crowley rose his other hand, fingertips brushing delicately the curve of Aziraphale’s fingernails, as he moved his lips down slowly.

He took great care into pressing soft little kisses all along every phalange, moving up to brush his lips against the knuckle, and then moving onto the next finger. It was so slow, and his grasp on Aziraphale’s palm so soft, and the priest could’ve stepped back and away at any moment, but he didn’t. As Crowley reached the tip of his index finger he glanced up, looking at Aziraphale through his eyelashes and the strands of red, curly hair messily framing his face and tickling at Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale was distinctly red in the face, eyebrows vaguely twisted and grey-blue eyes water-y. He was biting down on his lower lip, just slightly, looking somewhat conflicted. Crowley kept staring with an almost methodical light in his eyes, as he slid the tip of his tongue on Aziraphale’s fingertip, teeth scraping his skin lightly.

Aziraphale flinched softly, at that, eyes closing as the crease between his eyebrows deepened. He released a strangled, itching breath, so faint Crowley wouldn’t have heard it, hadn’t he been in possession of a not exactly human sense of hearing.

_There it is_, he thought to himself, something simultaneously hot and cold twirling in his stomach, as he dragged his tongue along Aziraphale’s finger a bit more, and then retreating._ This is it. React. C’mon— Get angry at me. Accuse me. Tell me I’m a horrible person— Or let out that moan you are holding in, give into the lust, and let me have you— C’mon—_

But it didn’t happen. Nothing that he hoped, nothing that he dreaded. Aziraphale stayed very still, and then slowly pulled his hand out of Crowley’s hold, put both his palms on Crowley’s face, gently cupping his cheeks.

“Anthony—“ he started, his voice wavering just slightly, and yet the bottomless kindness was there. It just kept going and _going._ “If there’s anything you need to talk about… You can talk to me.”

And something crashed inside Crowley’s chest, making him feel like there were jagged glass pieces pushing from the inside, prickling and burning. He stared, eyes wide and eyebrows twisting, mouth slightly open. Speechless.

Aziraphale smiled down at him, so very tenderly, and oh—

_Oh_.

Crowley closed his eyes, taking in a quivering breath. The touch on his cheeks was almost searing.

Aziraphale was _emanating_ it, _all of it_, his kindness and his holiness and that thing Crowley wouldn’t give a name to.

And Crowley was so very, utterly _fucked_.

“…I’m sorry,” he managed to spit out, strangled, keeping his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.”

“…You’re forgiven,” Aziraphale murmured back, and _fuck_— That hurt as much as a blessing, a stinging pain like a long needle plunged in Crowley’s head. And then Aziraphale leaned in, hands shifting down on Crowley’s shoulders and then his back, as he enveloped Crowley in a hug. And that _hurt_ too, it hurt so much, and yet Crowley did not want to let go, fingers hooking in the back of Aziraphale’s dark shirt.

He clung as much as he dared to, until he felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore and something dark was closing in, and then leaned back, pushing softly against Aziraphale’s chest. The priest respectfully stepped back.

“I… I need some time alone. Please,” Crowley said, quietly, staring at the floor and receiving a gentle caress on the top of his head. It prickled.

“Of course, my dear boy. If there’s— Anything you need, you have my number,” was the soft reply, and then the heels of Aziraphale shoes clicked against the parquet, the noise lowering as he stepped away. The click of a door opening and closing, and Crowley breathed in with effort.

The sensation of Aziraphale’s presence was lingering, and Crowley realized that the priest went _this_ close to unconsciously turn his living room in sacred ground.

“Shit—“ Crowley hissed, falling back on the couch and dragging both hands on his face. “Fucking _shit_—“

—

Hell and Heaven had more in common than one might think, even if the respective sides would loudly criticise the concept, if anyone ever dared saying it out loud. They had a lot of rules that might be worded differently, but broadly meant the same thing, for starters.

‘_Do not fall in love with a human_’, was one of Heaven’s rules, sitting neatly in the first page of the manual given to those heavenly soldiers sent to look after Her creations. It almost didn’t need to be written, because the Angels rarely stuck around in the same place long enough to even contemplating the ludicrous idea of falling in love.

And it was the same, for Demons. They never stuck around long enough, not to mention they didn’t even pronounce THAT word. Their version of that rule was as following:

“_Do not lust specifically after a single human._”

Which one might argue meant the same, but that single change of word, apparently insignificant, meant a _galaxy_ of difference. Because _lusting_ was a thing.

And the other L word, something entirely different.

And Crowley had read the rulebook from cover to cover, with painstaking focus. Because if he was going to exploit every single loophole he could find, he had to be properly informed.

_Do not lust specifically after a single human_. Easy. He never felt the need to, not when seducing whoever he pleased came to him so easily.

And so, Crowley was screwed from the start. Because he didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to fall in love. He didn’t know he even _had_ the ability to fall in love. He thought that had been ripped away along with his Grace, when he tumbled down.

He ‘loved’ things, sure. He ‘loved’ Earth and humanity’s ingenuity and good food and alcohol. He ‘loved’ all the little creative things humans would come up with, and how funny it was to trick them with a coin glued to the sidewalk or by making them turn their USB sticks around between four and six times, before they’d finally be able to get the right side up.

He ‘loved’ those things, sarcastic quotation marks and all, a fondness that for the most part stood on a surface enough level that it felt easy to accept.

But _falling in love_— That was another matter entirely.

Crowley had been doomed from the start. And he was _finally_ starting to realize it.


	4. Chapter 4

—4—

Crowley was still struggling with realizations that kept knocking on his door and impatiently tapping at their wristwatch, as if saying, ‘What are you waiting for? Time to let us in!’, when Aziraphale disappeared for three days without a warning.

“He went with this woman who arrived in a very modern looking car. Seemed to be rather in a hurry, didn’t even say where he was going,” Mrs. Robinson, the owner of the other second floor flat, said primly, when Crowley had knocked and asked.

“That wasn’t just a _modern looking car_—“ Earl, the downstairs neighbour, interjected, sounding strangled as if Mrs. Robinson had uttered something unbearably insulting. “It was a _Bugatti_! And if I’m not wrong, it was the Chiron model—“

“Well, it was a car, that’s certain—“

“Not just a _car_! Good lord, woman, do you even know the marvel of engineering that—“

Crowley left them to their bickering over a cup of tea, knowing they wouldn’t even notice his disappearance, without even a ‘_see you later, alligator_’. It was about time the two did something about their obvious crushes for one another.

Instead, he went and opened the door of Aziraphale’s apartment with a snap of his fingers and let himself in.

The first thing he noticed was the ancient flip phone sitting on the kitchen table. That explained why his attempts to call Aziraphale went unanswered, and why the phone stopped ringing entirely, when the battery must’ve ran out. The second thing he noticed was the teacup in pieces on the floor, a dark stain on the carpet where tea must’ve sunk in, uncleaned.

Other than that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, which made the whole ordeal feel even more ominous.

Unsure of what to do, Crowley went back home, and stayed home, pondering if he ought to risk going Downstairs and see if he could use a bit of cheating to locate Aziraphale. It was a pondering that required _hours_, because he dreaded the idea of possibly leaving himself open to more questioning about his supposed ’tempting a priest’ situation, and dreaded even more the possibility of leaving traces by putting Aziraphale directly into Hell’s radar, traces that could help whichever fuckhead might decide to try and take the whole ‘tempting a priest’ situation into their own dirty hands.

Thankfully, the pondering went on long enough that Aziraphale took the problem right off of his hands by coming back on his own. In front of Crowley’s cottage. In a Bugatti.

It roared like a lion, snapping Crowley out of his murky contemplation of What To Do Now. The engine roared again to a stop as he peered outside the window, hidden from human eyes just to be safe. He could feel the Bentley’s displeasure.

_You are much better than that, darling. Listen to that. What’s all that noise supposed to do? All bark and no bite, sweetheart, let me tell you. You’d give that pompous, showy bastard a run for its money, easily. I know you could, _he mentally whispered to her in a hurry.

The Bentley let out a content huff and winded down, as Crowley attentively stared.

So, Aziraphale came out of the Bugatti, from the driver’s side, and Crowley could feel his eyebrows climb toward his hairline at the speed of light before remembering that, right. Bugatti sports car. The driver’s seat was on the other side.

So, Aziraphale actually came out the passenger seat, so far so good. The car had tinted glass, in that obnoxious ‘_you will drool over my expensive ride, but you will not be allowed to put your peasant eyes upon my visage_’ kind of way. Except the window rolled down, revealing a woman who might’ve been in her thirties, black hair a silky cascade around her sharp, thin face, and big round sunglasses covering almost all of it. She was wearing deep crimson lipstick, her mouth slightly pursed as she looked at Aziraphale, who was walking away from the car with something dangerous in his gaze.

He looked unkempt. There was a three day old golden-white beard peppered with gray framing his mouth and climbing up the soft curve of his jaw. His hair looked ever more rumpled than usual, as if it had been combed back by hand many times. He had an anonymous black drawstring bag angrily slung over his shoulders, and wearing a very clearly hand-tailored shirt and slacks that Crowley had never seen him wear before.

“This is not your home,” the woman declared apropos of nothing. Aziraphale kept walking. “Zizi,” she added, at his lack of an answer.

It was such a cute little nickname. Except the way she said it sounded so flat and distant— It was like hearing an alien trying to grasp the concept of pet names.

“Why did you want me to drop you here?” she asked again, as Aziraphale put his hand on the low fence gate of Crowley’s cottage. He paused.

“Bye, Maggie,” he then said, flat, and that was it. He opened the gate and kept walking up the stone-paved path leading to the front door.

The woman, Maggie, stared some more with her lips pursed, and then the window rolled back up, noiseless. The engine roared back to life, the Bugatti turned around, and drove back from where it came from, sounding like thunder.

Crowley waited, not wanting to look like he had been spying. It took Aziraphale some seconds, before he actually knocked.

Crowley opened the door.

“Can I stay here, tonight?” was the first thing Aziraphale said, voice like ice and eyes a storm. Crowley wordlessly stepped on a side to let him in.

Without another word, Aziraphale stomped in, heels clicking in a ghastly familiar manner on the parquet, and went straight for the guest room without needing to ask. Crowley followed silently, watching. Shoes went, abandoned by the entrance of the guest room, the drawstring bag was launched unceremoniously on the chair sitting by the empty courtesy desk. A face-down flop on the bed was had, and Aziraphale grabbed the pillow to push it against his face, releasing a muffled roar.

Crowley very wisely decided to go into the kitchen, pondering on how he’d wanted Aziraphale to get angry at him, when he tried to snog his hand like an idiot. He was now very, _very_ glad he hadn’t. Angry Aziraphale looked _scary_.

When he went back to the guest room, Aziraphale was still flopped face down on the bed, limbs spread out like a particularly irked starfish. Crowley carefully sat down inthe little space there was left at his side, and held a glass full of Cabernet Sauvignon that he’d been keeping for better occasions near his face.

(He’d stashed a variety of things in the cottage, in hope the chance to deploy some half-assed ‘let’s corrupt this priest’ plan could happen. He was one very meticulously organised Demon, except in all the ways he wasn’t.)

Aziraphale turned, either feeling the presence or Crowley’s weight tipping the mattress down. He glanced at the wine that was silently being offered and turned around to sit, accepting the glass. He threw his head back and downed it pretty much in one go, giving the impression of a particularly plastered college student who downed shots like it was a job.

Crowley grimaced, silently asking forgiveness for what was being done to something that was supposed to be savoured slowly, possibly over a good steak or a variety of cheeses, and took the glass back, to fill it again.

“Want to talk about it?” he finally asked when Aziraphale accepted the glass a second time and took a more reasonable sip.

“Not particularly, no,” Aziraphale replied, an edge to his rough tone. He licked his lips and looked down at the glass with a vague frown setting on his tired face. “Did you open an actually good wine? Seems like a waste. This is a ‘cheap store-bought wine’ kind of situation.”

Crowley offered a silent shrug.

That seemed enough to sand-off a bit of the edge, as Aziraphale heaved a small sigh, and took another sip.

“Sorry I barged in like this. I just— Don’t feel particularly like going home, for now,” he said, voice considerably lower.

“Mh— Well, it was about time I’d start to pay back some of the nights I’ve spent squatting at your place.”

“You didn’t _squat_, Anthony, I was happy to— Oh, why am I even trying to convince you, at this point?”

Crowley snickered, satisfied in seeing a brief smile pulling at Aziraphale’s mouth. Much better.

“Do you want more?” he asked once the second glass had been emptied. Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, better not. Thank you. Just— Give me five minutes,” he added, flopping belly up on the bed tiredly. Crowley hummed and took the empty glass, directed back to the kitchen. The wine landed in the fridge, the glass in the sink, and then Crowley paused.

Whatever had happened, it mustn’t have been nice. He didn’t like seeing Aziraphale upset. At _all_.

_Knock knock,_ went the realizations that tapped on their wristwatches and waved at Crowley from the other side of the door, trying to get acknowledged. Crowley ignored them yet again.

“I’ll be in the garden!” He loudly announced, sticking his head in the corridor, and then going outside to water plants that hardly needed to be watered.

—

It wasn’t five minutes as much as it was two hours. Crowley waited outside. Once he had been done watering, he kneeled in the grass and threateningly whispered to the sprouts of poison ivy that were trying to grow once more. Then he gave a convincing -but low-voiced- speech to the delphinium, and spent some minutes telling the hollyhock they better watch themselves. It was quite fun, looking after a garden. He ought to try keep some plants, _if_ he ever moved.

(_Knock knock_ went the realizations, but you know the drill at this point.)

In the end, Aziraphale joined him, barefooted. He didn’t seem to mind walking on the lawn, still humid after being half-drowned by Crowley, and he sat down on the garden bench propped by the rustic brick wall, looking somewhat deflated. Crowley faked —rather badly— being busy with the already perfectly trimmed bushes, while actually staring at him intently out the corner of his eye.

Aziraphale squirmed in his seat, looked down at his knees, wrenched his fingers in his lap.

And then started to sob earnestly, big wrecking things that shook his shoulders from the depths of his chest. Crowley dropped his shears, and he was by Aziraphale’s side in an instant.

“Hey— Hey, sssh— It’s alright—“ he hastily murmured, draping an arm over Aziraphale’s shaking shoulders, his other hand hovering near his cheek. “What’s wrong? C’mon, talk to me—“

Aziraphale took in a ragged breath between two sobs, eyebrows scrunched as tears rolled down his cheeks, disappearing in his beard.

“She’s _dead_—“ he managed to rattle out, broken despair in his voice. “She died last month— And they didn’t_ tell me_—“

Crowley gaped silently, his hand still hovering near Aziraphale’s cheek. He gritted his teeth and slowly, so slowly put his thumb under Aziraphale’s eye, drying the tears away.

“Aziraphale—“ Crowley murmured, pained.

Aziraphale only sobbed harder, leaning against Crowley when Crowley pulled him closer, pushing his forehead against Crowley’s throat. He was shivering, as he hooked his fingers in Crowley’s shirt.

Crowley kept quiet, rubbing slow circles on Aziraphale’s back as he cried, every rough sob like a stab in Crowley’s chest. It seemed to take forever, before Aziraphale started to calm down a bit, sniffing, whimpering occasionally, until he fell silent. Neither of them moved for long seconds, the only noise filling the air the shuffling of leaves in a chilly breeze.

“…Aziraphale, what happened?” Crowley dared to ask in an exhale, hand stilling between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades.

“…My mother,” he murmured, rough. “Lung cancer. They didn’t tell me about it— They didn’t tell me she died— They d-didn’t even tell me about t-the _funeral_—“

He released a broken noise, and sobbed again. Crowley squeezed him tighter, breathing slowly.

He gulped the rage he could feel rising along his throat like bile. Aziraphale didn’t need that, now.

“…I’m sorry, Aziraphale,” he offered softly, knowing it was barely more than a hollow platitude. “I’m— That’s _horrible_. I’m sorry.”

“…Thank you,” Aziraphale weakly murmured back, regardless. His forehead burned against Crowley’s throat. He was still shivering, slightly, but at least it seemed as if he had no tears to cry anymore.

Crowley wondered if he had been able to spill any, in the past three days. He had the distinct feeling Aziraphale had been holding back until he felt like he could safely cry.

(Did he feel safe, with Crowley? _Knock knock_, went the realizations.)

Silence fell once more, as the darkness of the night started to quickly envelop them. It seemed as if Aziraphale might decide to just stay there, if the fact he hadn’t moved a single finger so far was anything to come by. Crowley carefully started to lean back, putting both hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and gently pulling him back up on his feet.

“C’mon, let’s go back inside,” he said, soft. “It’s getting pretty cold out here.”

Without a word Aziraphale followed, tearful, tired eyes pointed downward. He looked so miserable it made Crowley want to turn the world upside down, and demand to know who _dared_ to reduce him to that state, and then proceed to rip that someone apart limb by limb.

It was— Wrong. Aziraphale wasn’t meant to look like that. He should be smiling with those glinting eyes of his, with the lines in his face shining like the sun. He should sit and be washed in contentedness as he watched over his little community and all the people that cared for him. He should be _praised_ for even existing with his too big heart and his cheerful enthusiasm and his sweetly quiet kindness.

(_Knock knock_. The door opened a smidge.)

“…Do you feel like eating something?” Crowley asked slowly, eyeing him. He looked awfully pale.

But Aziraphale shook his head, sniffing.

“I’ll— Take a shower. Go to sleep,” he murmured, still not looking up. Crowley hesitated, but then let him go, watching his shuffle out the kitchen in absolute desolation.

If only he could do something, _anything_, to make him feel better—

(The realizations tapped on Crowley’s shoulder. He ignored them, a shiver running down his spine)

(But they were there, now, and they could wait just a little bit longer. They were patient.)

—

Crowley did not feel like eating, either, and he didn’t need it as well, so he went in his room, and listened.

Aziraphale showered, quickly, but took a while to come out of the bathroom. The door of the guest room clicked shut, silence fell.

Not even an hour later, it clicked open again. The faint slap of naked feet on the parquet moved down the corridor, and the door of the living room creaked close. The gentle sound of the piano reached Crowley’s ear only thanks to his demonic fine hearing a minute later.

He got up, and as silent as a shadow, slid into the living room, willing the door not to creak again. Aziraphale had left the lights off, and only a blue tinted soft light entered from the big window, painting Aziraphale’s back in muted azure and greys and dark shadows. He kept playing, slowly, and Crowley knew this song as well, but couldn’t care to search his memory for the title.

It felt sorrowful. Aziraphale didn’t turn even when Crowley made his steps audible, not wanting to scare him, nor when he slithered into the tight spot on the bench, their thighs pressed together. Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s profile. He shaved, his soft face bare once more.

“…Did I wake you up?” Aziraphale asked, low, fingers lazily sliding along the keyboard as he kept playing.

“No,” Crowley replied, matching the volume of his voice.

“You know— The only reason I can play the piano is because she insisted in me taking lessons. I hated it, at first—“ Aziraphale said, apropos of nothing. “I was five. All I wanted was to go bother my sister and play in that giant garden we weren’t allowed to touch. She was hard on me, at first, demanding I’d take it seriously— It only felt like another obligation.”

Crowley kept quiet, and after a brief pause, Aziraphale continued.

“But as I grew older I realized— I realized how quietly happy she looked, when I played. I realized it was— A link I could use to connect to her, and realized how beautiful it felt, being able to create something by simply pressing the keys. It kept us close. My father, he— Did not care for these things. He does not care for _anything_—“ his voice faltered, went strangled, but he kept going. “She was only able to convince him to let me take these lessons because it’d teach me discipline. And during those hours, I could speak with her, albeit only through the music. She was— She cared, I know she did, even if she couldn’t ever show it. None of us could. That house was so— _Cold_.”

Crowley wondered how long had Aziraphale been keeping these words inside him, a perpetual knot in his throat, never to be said out loud.

_God, why do you have to make them suffer so?_

(The realizations leaned over Crowley’s shoulder, and waited.)

“She cared for me, in the ways she was allowed to. But I ran. I left her in that cold house, in that cruel life, and hid in whichever place I thought could keep me away from them. I left her behind, I never told her— I never told that I was sorry. For failing her, for… For my weakness, for my cowardice, for all the ways I was not _enough_— I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye,” Aziraphale let out a trembly breath, turning toward Crowley. His red-rimmed eyes were dry, but not any less desperate. “Maybe it was my punishment. I guess I deserved it.”

(‘Go on,’ the realizations whispered in Crowley’s ear.)

“You’re not weak, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured back, not diverting his eyes despite the depth of _everything_ that he could see in the blue-gray of Aziraphale’s own. “It’s not your fault. None of— What you said was your fault. You _are_ enough. And you are _not_ a coward.”

“Aren’t I?” Aziraphale whispered back, eyebrows twisting just slightly, something charged in his trembly voice.

“No. You are not a coward,” Crowley repeated, low but firm.

Aziraphale lips trembled as a loaded smile pulled at them. He looked down at his own hands that he rose in front of his chest and then, shivering, he slowly, so slowly, slid the golden wings ring off of his finger. He put it down on the lid of the piano with a soft click.

Then he turned to Crowley, pulled him down by the collar, and kissed him.

—

_“This is— For me?”_

_“Of course.”_

_He took the small thing between his thumb and middle finger, almost reverently, and held it up to his eyes, turning it around._

_“Why wings?” he asked, somewhat breathless. Liam smiled, taking the ring, gently, and pulling his left hand._

_“Because,” he murmured, soft, sliding the ring on Aziraphale’s ring finger. It was a perfect fit. “You are an angel. My angel.”_

_“Oh—“ Aziraphale exhaled, cheeks pinking, eyes locked onto the gold sitting snugly on him. “Oh, dear, that seems a bit— Much.”_

_With a little chuckle, Liam rose Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips, placing a tender kiss on it._

_“It isn’t,” he whispered, eyes closed, and Aziraphale knew that he’d be happy to grow old with him._

_-_

_“Don’t you dare make a scene—“_

_The knot in Aziraphale’s throat was too tight, for him to possibly make a scene. The restaurant was fully booked, but spacious._

_It still felt like hundreds of eyes were pointed at them. _

_He looked up, trembling, and only managed a strangled “no.”_

_His father’s nostrils flared._

_“It wasn’t a request.”_

_“No, it wasn’t—“ Aziraphale agreed in a trembly, mirthless chuckle. “I’m still saying no.”_

_“Zizi,” Magdalene murmured, at his side, so low Aziraphale knew no one would hear her, but him._

_“It wasn’t a request,” Jeremy repeated, slowly. “I was merely informing you.”_

_“I’ll inform you of something as well, then. I already have a fiancé.”_

_He squeezed his own left hand, the ring a solid presence giving him strength. Mother let out a tiny breath._

_“You _ ** _what_ ** _?” Jeremy uttered dangerously. Aziraphale somehow held his gaze, but shivered._

_“You heard me,” he croaked, and then stood. He was done. He couldn’t take any of this anymore._

_“Don’t you dare— Come back!” Jeremy snapped as Aziraphale walked away, heads turning in their direction. “We are not done! COME BACK, YOU UNGRATEFUL BRAT!”_

_He didn’t turn._

_-_

_He stumbled back, a whimper dying in his throat._

_“He’s only using you,” Maria said, cold. “Everyone knows it, everyone could see it. Why couldn’t _ ** _you_ ** _, Aziraphale?”_

_“No— You—“_

_Oblivious about the two pairs of eyes watching from above, Liam’s hand slid on the woman’s bottom, and she chuckled, ravenously claiming his mouth._

_“They all will use you. And us,” Maria continued. “That’s how people are out there, Aziraphale. You will never find anyone that will truly love who you are. All they see when they look at you is our family’s power, and how much they wish to claim it for themselves.”_

_“What power?!” Aziraphale replied, in a strangled laugh with no joy in it. “The power of using and hurting others? The power of living in a house that feels like a tomb? _ ** _That_ ** _ power?!”_

_Maria’s eyes flashed. “Dad is right, you _ ** _are_ ** _ an ungrateful brat,” she hissed. “Mum and Dad gave you everything. You never had to worry about a single thing in your entire life, and you dare bite the hand that feeds you, for _ ** _what_ ** _? Family is the only thing that matters, Aziraphale. Is the only thing that will always be there, when everyone else will inevitably stab you and leave you for dead—“_

_“Not everyone—“ Aziraphale interjected, holding the tears at bay. “I refuse to believe— Millions of people, out there, and you really think that every single one of them would only want to use us?”_

_“I do.”_

_They stared at each other, in silence._

_“Take off that ring,” Maria finally said, voice lowering. “And apologize to Dad, and it’ll all go away.”_

_He looked down, at the wings circling his finger, and the pain became almost unbearable._

_“I wish it was that easy, Maria,” he whispered, eyes closing._

_-_

_The ring looked at him from the pew in front of him, as he kneeled, and he looked back. A hand landed softly on the back of his neck._

_‘I’m sorry,’ the touch seemed to say what words couldn’t ‘I’m sorry, my dear.’_

_“Do you think I should throw it away?” He asked in a rough whisper._

_“…Would that feel right?” Mother finally said, in her usually measured tone._

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Then I’d suggest you keep it, until you can decide for yourself.”_

_-_

_The ring stayed in his pocket until the day he first wore the white collar._

_It was the day he would turn his back to his family, and walk away. Give up his name and his wealth and the curse that came with it. Just running as far as he could, and never looking back toward those who promised him love and protection, and yet only made him feel small, useless, _ ** _wrong_ ** _._

_He took it out, that day, stared at it. And made a promise to himself, like he had made a promise to God earlier that day._

_He would wear it, for the rest of his life. To remind himself to never again fall in that trap. To never again allow himself to give all of his love, his trust, his devotion to one person. To never again bare his heart and let it being stomped on._

_He’d devote himself to the faith that had kept him sane for twenty five years of life, the one true thread holding him together. That belief there was a benevolent force, out there, that loved him with no strings attached, and loved everyone else as well, in the way Aziraphale wished he’d been allowed to do. He’d repent for his father’s sins, and try to give back what his family had taken, in any way he could._

_He tried to put the ring in the same spot it had originally sat, and found out it was now too small. He smiled a cold smile, changed hands, and slid it on his right little finger. _

_Away from the heart, but still close enough to be a reminder._

_He walked away, and never once looked back._

_-_

_He wore that ring for twenty years and seven months. And then he broke the promise, slid it off, and allowed his heart to open once more._

—

Anthony released a soft gasp, his mouth stilling against Aziraphale’s. Then he breathed through his nose, trembly, and tilted his head on a side. Red curls tickled at Aziraphale’s cheeks, as their lips tentatively slid in a soft dance against one another.

The knot in Aziraphale’s throat released just slightly, as a shiver ran down his spine, a soft moan in the depths of his throat. He felt like the contact between them _burned,_ as Anthony nipped gently, as his tongue darted out just slightly, meeting Aziraphale’s own in a fleeting second. He pressed his palm against Anthony’s chest, feeling his heart beating madly, feeling the slight tremor that shook him when his gentle thumb landed on Aziraphale’s chin, pushing just slightly.

He gave in, pliant, another little noise growing in the back of his throat, melting in a breathless moan when Anthony’s tongue slid in his mouth, so sweet, and burning like fire.

He heard the growl Anthony released when he replied in kind, licking into his mouth torturously slow, raising a hand along the back of his neck, to sink his fingers in the red waves, nails scraping gently. He felt the vibration in Anthony’s chest when he leaned into him hungrily, with more urgency, one hand cupping Aziraphale’s jaw, the other circling his waist, pulling him in. Aziraphale went, feeling boneless, the hand on Anthony’s chest sliding on his slender hip as they pressed their chests flush, mouths firmly sealed together.

It was only when his head was starting to feel light with the lack of air, that Aziraphale forced himself to lean back, after fervently meeting Anthony’s tongue one last time. He kept his eyes closed as he breathed in heavily, feeling his mouth tingle with a burn that didn’t hurt.

Anthony did not move, after attempting to chase Aziraphale’s mouth, not breathing nearly as heavily as Aziraphale was. Aziraphale finally opened his eyes, sight slightly blurred, and looked up.

Anthony’s eyes were a pool of gold, vaguely misshapen pupils blown wide as he stared down at Aziraphale like he just came to some world ending realization. Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, at the sheer amount of intensity in his gaze. There was a crease in the middle of his eyebrow, as if he was almost in pain.

“…Shit,” he murmured, voice low and rough. A slightly hysterical chuckle escaped Aziraphale’s lips.

“…’s that good?” he managed to ask, slurred, almost drunk on the soup of things happening inside his chest.

“I don’t know—“ Anthony choked, and then added another little, empathic “_shit_,” before leaning in again and pushing his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale went boneless again, eyes fluttering closed, almost passively allowing Anthony to do of him whatever he pleased. A pleasing thrill ran down his spine, making him shiver evidently, when Anthony let out a hungry, muffled moan.

But then— “_No_,” he whispered, leaning back abruptly. “No, Aziraphale— Oh, what I have _done_—“

Aziraphale blinked repeatedly, confused.

“What?”

“No, we _can’t_— You— You—“

Aziraphale didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear the excuses, the ‘you are a priest’, the ‘you took vows’, and all the hundreds of things one could make up to stop him from finally chasing after something he knew would make him happy.

He didn’t care. He’d break vows, he’d break promises, he’d break the entire cursed world for this one blasted time, because the man that was still holding him in his arms was the one person in Aziraphale’s entire life that ever accepted him as he was. That listened to him. That understood without judgment. That _gave_, without asking anything back.

The one man Aziraphale loved.

“Anthony,“ he interject, firm, not a trace of doubt in him. “I lov—“

Nimble fingers landed on his mouth, an alarmed expression rising on Anthony’s face.

“No no _no_— Don’t say it, please—“

A reproachful frown twisted Aziraphale’s eyebrows, and then the hurt follow. It must be clear on his expression, because Anthony flinched.

“Aziraphale—“

“If you don’t feel the same way,” Aziraphale murmured, feeling the sting of tears prickling already. “Then you don’t have to do anything, but you can’t stop me from saying it—“

“Aziraphale, _please_, don’t—“ the alarm in Anthony’s eyes was rapidly shifting into panic. Aziraphale pushed his hand away.

“It’s how I feel. I don’t want to keep lying.”

“I know! Shit, Aziraphale, I—“ amber eyes moved feverishly, before turning back to Aziraphale’s gray-blue gaze. “My birthday.”

Aziraphale blinked.

“…What?”

“My birthday. New Year’s Eve— If you still feel the same way by then, you will tell me.”

Aziraphale’s mouth slowly closed, a frown emerging.

“Listen,” Anthony continued, almost frantic. “You— You are tired, and you are grieving, and I have no doubt the last three days have really fucking sucked, for you— So I— I want to give you a bit of time, to calm down, get back in your head, and— And really think about what you want. And— And if on New Year’s Eve you will feel the same, then I will listen.”

Aziraphale did not reply. Admittedly— Anthony had a point. The last three days had been awful, and he was grieving, and he felt so off-center that he looked at Anthony like a lighthouse in a storm. Maybe he was right— He had to take some time, and reflect.

And there was a warmth inside his soul, that promised him nothing would change. That on the evening of December 31st he would once more sit in front of Anthony, and feel the same way. That he would be ready to give up his old life for a new one, and face everything that that would entail.

He was done running. But he could wait just a bit more, and tidy up what was needed to be tidied up, before taking that step.

“Please. I promise,” Anthony added in a whisper, his hands cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks and his forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s, amber eyes so full of everything firmly pointed at him.

Aziraphale took in a deep breath, eyes closing, and nodded.

“Ok,” Anthony whispered, almost fearful. “I— Ok.”


	5. Chapter 5

—5—

December started, bringing snow. Life went on.

Crowley went on, as well, and yet couldn’t help but feel as if his life had paused, that night. So many things had happened in that single, infinitesimal instant when Aziraphale’s lips brushed Crowley’s for the first time.

The first was his brain crashing with a sound that, more or less, went like this: ‘_kdjsakas_.’

The second was finally feeling the weight pressing on his shoulders, and acknowledging those realizations who, at that point, weren’t even impatient anymore; just patted his head like a patient teacher dealing with a student who wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Said realizations presented themselves as follows:

“Nice to meet you,” the one that looked like a bright ray of sun, always smiling, cheerfully said. “I’m the realization telling you that Aziraphale is in love with you! That was the _‘imitation of lust_’ in his eyes that you couldn’t understand, dearie!”

They even did the air quotes with their metaphorical fingers. Prick.

“Hullo,” the second realization said, saluting with two fingers cheekily. They looked, for some inexplicable reason, like that famous actor— How was his name David Tenten? Tennit? “I’m th' realization telling ye that yer in love. Wi' Aziraphale. Bampot.”

“Sorry, didn’t catch that—“ Crowley mentally replied, putting a thumb on Aziraphale’s chin.

“Hello, dear son,” the third realization said, with a kind female voice and their impossible-to-describe body. “I’m the realization telling you that, yes, you are in trouble. You fell in love with a mortal, and a mortal fell in love with you. That, honey, is a tricky situation if I ever saw one. And, on top of it, this human is quite the— Special one, isn’t he? Supposedly, the two of you should be fundamentally incompatible. Immortal Demon, mortal God-touched priest—“ she hissed softly. “Very troubling. How does it feel, kissing him?”

“It _hurts_—“ Crowley had silently replied as their tongues met for the first time, in a whining tone that sounded more pleasured that pained. “It’s _amazing_— Oh— _Oh_, I bet this is how it would feel to lick a very, very diluted Holy Water ice lolly, wouldn’t it?”

“Mmmmh,” she said, sounding amused. “I wouldn’t know. But yes, despite all the odds, the two of you have managed to fall in love. It was quite amazing, really, the way you both pushed and forced your ways to meet in the middle, almost as if you are meant to be together across the multiverse— Very interesting.”

Crowley might’ve replied with something snarky, at that, except Aziraphale had pushed his tongue inside Crowley’s mouth and was licking with intent and at that point all he could muster was a “_dkslfsdljflksd_—“

The realizations stepped back, at that point, satisfied. There would be time to discuss with their charge but for now they could grant him some privacy.

So, yes, Crowley had realized a lot of things in a very brief time. Aziraphale loved him, he loved Aziraphale, he fell in love with a mortal, and kissing said mortal was simultaneously the most agonizing, most pleasing, most amazing thing he ever done in the long millennia of his immortal life.

It kept _hurting_, because Aziraphale’s soul remained stubbornly _holy_ even as he sucked on Crowley’s tongue like a man dying of thirst. It hurt to kiss him so deeply, to breathe in the same air— It hurt to touch him, to hold him, to feel the fluttering of his heart as they pushed their chests together. It hurt when Aziraphale sunk his fingers in Crowley’s hair, fingernails scraping his scalp feeling like razor blades.

And yet Crowley didn’t want to stop. He’d let himself burn, if it meant not stopping kissing Aziraphale. He’d bear all the pain because there was so much _more_ mixed in that made it absolutely worth to bear. This warmth he felt spreading in himself, more intense than even the sun caressing his scales when he used to spend hours as a snake, soaking under the light, had been. This sensation of lightness that made him feel like he could fly in a way not even his wings allowed him to.

There was a triumphant little voice in his chest that was running around like a headless chicken, screaming “YES! FINALLY! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF OUR LIVES!!!”

Crowley kind of wanted it to shut up, except his brain was still rebooting, and he chased after Aziraphale’s mouth like a mindless dog, when Aziraphale leaned back with a ragged gasp.

_Right_, a tiny, somewhat still functioning brain cell whispered, _he needs to breathe. We can’t spend the rest of eternity attached to his mouth. Shame._

Some resemblance of reasoning was returning to him, and he tried to push back against it as he couldn’t help but claim that sweet, burning mouth again. But reason came back, regardless, and now he had to face the music.

Now, the clock was ticking.

Because he couldn’t bear the look of hurt on Aziraphale’s face when he interrupted his love confession, and the tears rising back to his already tired eyes. And so he blurted that promise, that promise that he would listen, on New Year’s Eve.

He bought time, but then what?

His life paused. Oh, it was all just as it had been for close to a year, at that point. Crowley took care of his garden and helped with Sunday school, he played with the children and he sat outside the church during sermons, a point of red in the background Aziraphale saw from his spot on the altar. He took walks with Aziraphale and drank tea with Aziraphale and listened to Aziraphale play the piano in his cottage. All just as it was before The Night of the Kiss.

(He thought it deserved the capital letters. It had been a life changing night. It deserved all the capital letters.)

The one different thing from before The Night of the Kiss were the moments Aziraphale looked so distant, his eyes becoming hooded, and Crowley would be there. He would be there, offering a soft touch, and silently be by Aziraphale’s side as he worked his way through his grief, a step every day. Then the moment would be over, and Aziraphale would gratefully smile at him, and nothing would be added. Crowley could keep pretending everything was just as before.

Except in all the ways it wasn’t just as before. There was so much more, now. Aziraphale had respected his request, and hadn’t made a single move as the days went. But there was this undercurrent between them, like a silent telephone line always active. It made Crowley feel electric, and he knew it must be the same for Aziraphale, because he sometimes saw him shiver for no apparent reason, like some kind of energy impossible to restrain was running up his spine. There were moments their eyes met and there would be something so _intense_ running through them that it made Crowley feel strangled even if he technically did not need to breathe. There would be little knowing smiles pulling at mouths when they thought the other wasn’t looking. One memorable time Aziraphale had looked over the kids’ heads as they watched some cartoons, and right when the two leads shared a passionate kiss (although in an age appropriate manner), Aziraphale had winked at him.

It made Crowley want to keel over and die clutching at his heart that technically didn’t need to beat, for the sheer _anticipation _that little gesture contained_,_ and the almost jealousy at how a close to fifty years old, plump, soft-looking priest with hair like golden clouds somehow managed to be more _smooth_ that Crowley could possibly dream of being.

It made his brain get stuck in a loop of “_Oh, I love him so much. Oh, I love him so much. Oh, I love him so much—_“

And that was the problem, really. Crowley loved Aziraphale so _blessedly_ much. And it was _The Problem_ because it inevitably caused a series of smaller problems to open up under his eyes. For his own sanity, Crowley had made a list of those:

1— I’m on borrowed time. The end of the year will come in the blink of an eye, and I have no idea what I am supposed to do about this.

2— I’m supposed to be corrupting Aziraphale’s soul. I know I will not be able to corrupt Aziraphale’s soul, unless things get hot and will that count as a sin? He pretty much put his tongue in my tonsils and he’s still as holy as the day I first met him, so is tonsil-poking ok? Is there a ‘What counts as a sin while engaging in sexual activities and all the fun things leading to sexual activities” manual, with a nice and clear index, somewhere? I have no idea what I am supposed to do about this.

3— I might actually explode if we get down to hot business. Can human bodily fluids have the same effect of Holy Water? Maybe in great quantities? I have no idea what I am supposed to do about this.

4— If I fail, or if I keep buying time, someone is bound to rise from Downstairs and come see what the hold up is about. I have no idea what I am supposed to do about this.

5— I should probably just leave. It’ll break Aziraphale’s heart, but he will get over it with time, right? And would breaking his heart count as ‘corrupting his souls’, for the bitches Downstairs? And would I be able to get over it? I have no idea what I am supposed to do about this.

<strike>6— I fell in love with a mortal. What the fuck was I thinking. Aziraphale is already pretty much at the half-way point of an average human’s life span, and I’m being generous with this average. A blink of an eye, and he’ll be gone. I will lose him. I will lose him so quickly, it’s unfair, why did everything had to turn out this way? Why couldn’t have I met him sooner, get us even just a day more together? I don’t want to lose him. I don’t think I will survive losing him. I want to run away with him and live forever at his side. I could deal with everything, at his side. I would do anything to be by his side. Why did I had to fall in love with him? Why didn’t I leave months ago? Fuck. Shit. Fuck fuck fuck. I have to find a way for us to be together forever. I’ll make him immortal, or I’ll make myself mortal, I don’t care, I just can’t stand the thought of a world without him. How did I live all this time without him? How have I not lost my mind without him? I have no idea what I am supposed to do about this.</strike>

The last point in the list had been angrily scratched over multiple times, as Crowley felt like choking on his own tears at the mere thought. He couldn’t bear to even brush that thought in passing. It _would_ drive him mad. He resolved to box that thought in a chest, and then put that chest in another chest, and so on for a while, and then let it sink in the ocean of ‘thoughts I will never touch upon ever again’ without a word. It was a future-Crowley’s problem.

The crux of the matter, in short, was that he had no idea what he was supposed to do about this.

The most logical course of action would probably be to just… Leave. Disappear. Let Aziraphale believe he’d been betrayed. It’ll hurt him, yes, but in the long run he’d be— Ok. Humans were resilient like that.

He should leave.

He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to forget about being a Demon, about Hell and Heaven and the constant push and pull between the two sides, and stay forever.

Crowley had to leave. But he didn’t.

Because love was inebriating. It made him feel light and giddy and drunk on the air around Aziraphale. Even if all they were doing, at the moment, was merely _existing_ in vague proximity, Aziraphale kept loving. And Crowley couldn’t stop hovering around him like a particularly smitten moth.

He hadn’t felt anything as warm and all-encompassing since his Fall. Maybe even back then, the love he was given hadn’t been the same. It had been an impersonal love, shared equally between millions.

But Aziraphale loved _him_. He loved _Crowley_, specifically. All of his affection was poured in a single, infinitesimal point of the void that was life, filling it with a devotion that shone like gold, like precious gems, like—

Like the light She shone on all of them, before his Fall.

He laughed hysterically at himself, when that thought first rose to his mind. How could that be possible? How could a single human shine like God? And yet, that’s how it felt, looking at Aziraphale. It felt like looking in Her light, which his eyes could never bear to stare at for more than a second or two— Except now they could. They could look at that light, and never get blinded by it.

Was love really such a pure feeling? For millennia Crowley believed that love was hardly more than an elaborate lie. There was affection, yes, and lust, and hormones storming inside the mortal’s bodies, making them think that chemical reactions in their brains could really be a concept as ephemeral, as impermanent as ‘love’. Making them believe the love they kept trying to explain in endless ways, in all the poetry and the stories and the paintings and statues and songs, could be real.

For millennia he believed love was but a deception the humans inflicted upon themselves, to help them try to survive through their fleeting, cursed lives.

How naive he had been. Love _was_ real, and it was _everywhere_, and he simply had been too blind to see it. But now he could— Now his eyes had been opened even as he tried to refuse, kicking and screaming, and he couldn’t look away. Not anymore.

He didn’t want to look away. He wanted to cradle that light in his hands like it was a baby bird, and keep it from all harm. He wanted to tie himself to Aziraphale and watch over him for every second of every day of the rest of his life.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do about this.

“What should I do about this?” he asked the realizations, who hung around his cottage like overgrown cockroaches.

“Oh, goodness, I don’t know!” the ray of sun replied, sounding delighted as it did about pretty much everything. “I only know that he loves you sssoooooo much—“

“Yeah, not helping,” Crowley waved it off hastily, turning toward the clone of that actor. “Do you have anything helpful?”

He looked back at Crowley with a tilted eyebrow, and said nothing. That was probably for the better. The guy spoke with a pretty thick Scottish accent, for reasons Crowley did not care to look into. He had enough to think about without paying attention to the details of these insistent hallucinations that stubbornly would not leave.

(Crowley had yet to realize that it was mostly his own fault, the fact the realizations took semi-physical form. He gave it to them, a desperate attempt of his subconscious to finally make him accept the truth. At least two of them were.)

“You are the voice of reason, here,” he said, turning to the third realization, in her ever-changing shape. “What do I do?”

“Oh, dear me, I don’t know!” She replied, flabbergasted. “That’s the trouble with free will, isn’t it? All those choices, and the clock running— You’ve really cornered yourself, here, haven’t you?”

“…Ooook, nevermind, you are _not_ the voice of reason. Great,” Crowley groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “You know what? You guys did— What you had to do. It’s time to leave. I need space. _Ciao_.”

The ray of sun and Mr. Actor Man rose from the couch, the first chirping a joyful “Bye bye, dear!”, and the second sniffing a “See ye efter.”

They crossed the kitchen door, and they were gone. Only the third remained.

“…Well?” Crowley asked, eyebrows rising along his forehead. She let out a hum.

“I guess it’s not quite the time, yet,” she said, cryptic. “Well, honey, if you think you might need me, you’ll find a way to call. Good luck.”

Something lifted from Crowley’s shoulder, once she went, like there had been some kind of pressure he hadn’t even noticed that disappeared with her.

_Weird_.

He turned back toward his List of Problems, tapped the pen against his chin, and finally in cursed silence got to work.

—

Not a sound came from outside as Aziraphale stood under the arc of his church’s entrance, watching the snow fall.

Everyone in the village was probably sitting around a table full of turkey and roast potatoes, bowls of thick gravy to pour over their plates, small mountains of mince pies and so much pudding. Families with overexcited children playing with their new toys, and old couples quietly enjoying the carols. Neighbours who had no family and lost their spouses a long time ago, who decided to _become_ a family, and sat side by side at their modest table, holding hands as they looked out the window.

He could almost feel that warm affection in the air like a physical presence, sitting thickly in his mouth like pollen, smelling sweetly like spring flowers.

He’d spend the evening alone. Well, technically, not alone. He had some things to do.

(“Do you have plans for Christmas?”

“I don’t— Ah, I don’t celebrate, no offence—“

“None taken. I don’t either.”

“…You are a _priest_.”

“Yes, that I am.”

“…Do you want to do— Something?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I will be busy regardless of my lack of personal celebrating, my dear boy. But— Will you be alone? Want me to come over once I’m done?”

“That’s alright, I— Just take care of what you must, Aziraphale.”)

He closed the heavy wooden door with a soft creak, plunging the old church in semi-darkness. Only the orange light of the candles painted him a way, as he walked down that aisle he, at that point, had walked hundreds of times.

He thought about kneeling in one of the front pews but that felt— Wrong. Distant. So he took the folder he left on top of the pew, approached the slightly elevated platform the altar rested on, and he sat down, folder in his lap. He turned sideways, looking up at the cross, a dark shape cutting the soft, gray light coming from the glass of the arched window.

“…Hi,” he started, voice low. “It has— Been a while, since I’ve last done this, hasn’t it?”

He waited, the silent second stretching until he felt warmth sitting in his chest, and he breathed deeply.

“The last few months have been— A lot,” he continued, distractedly playing with a corner of the folder in his lap. “So much has happened— I met— Someone,” he took a long pause, willing the fluttering of love-sick butterflies to stop rising along his throat. “Someone who grew to be— Important, to me. Very important.”

“My mother, she— I’m still having a hard time accepting she’s gone. Accepting that I will never get to tell her that I loved her, despite everything. I— I hope she’s listening, now. That she knows I love her. I hope she’s with you, even if— Even if I cannot be sure. She was never outright cruel as father was, but is passivity a sin? I do wonder— I hope that, if it is, you have forgiven her. She was stuck in that situation as much as any of us children had. It’s all she knew. If you haven’t— Please, do forgive her, and allow her peace…”

“But— Ah, I guess it’s rather selfish of me, to beg you for forgiveness on someone else’s behalf, when I’m about to— To say what I’m about to say. I— You know I love you, that I have from that first time I could feel your warmth, and that I will always love you. I know that— That you’ve been lenient with me, with the way I’ve decided to fulfil my role. And I’m so very grateful for that. I will always be. I feel— If not at peace, at least _better_, knowing I did what I could to repent for all the pain my father has caused in others. And— I don’t know, maybe I could’ve done more. I’ve grown rather complacent, living here, haven’t I? But— Ah, I guess it doesn’t matter, at this point. Not anymore. I guess I ought to say what I need to say, instead.”

“…I love Anthony. I love him so very much. For almost half of my life I’ve believed that— That I had run out of love, that night— That the betrayal I witnessed had destroyed my ability to care for another person to those depths. I’ve cared for people, but always from a certain distance, so sure I’d never feel that kind of passion again. Oh, how wrong I was— Silly of me, really.”

“He just— Crash-landed in my life, and not for a minute did I suspect any of this could happen. But being by his side made me feel so happy, and— Oh, how I wish you could see him. Maybe you can— He is rather shifty about— A lot of things. He acts like he doesn’t, but I can tell he has faith— I guess it’s none of my business, how he expresses that faith, but— I hope you can see him. He’s— Beautiful, isn’t he? And I mean— I mean, not just physically, although he’s certainly a very handsome man—“

“Oh, sorry, I really can’t help myself, huh? But— Look at him. He’s beautiful _inside_, isn’t he? He has so much to give to others, he’s kind, he’s thoughtful… Oh, I do love him so. I don’t think— I don’t think I have to ask your forgiveness, for that. You approve of love, I know that you do. It’s not the way I feel that I’m here for. I know that you know, I feel like I can hardly hold myself together when around others, that at any point I might just— Be unable to hold it in anymore, that it’d pour out of me and everyone would _feel_ how much I love Anthony. So, I’m not silly enough as to pretend you mustn’t know already.”

“I’ve done a lot of thinking, this month. And I— I’m here to beg you for forgiveness, because I’m about to be selfish.”

With a deep breath, he opened the folder. Took out the papers inside, and gingerly deposited it on the floor by his side. Took a pen out of his shirt pocket.

“…All I have to do is put my signature. It’s all filled in already. Do I have your permission? Can I— Can I step back, and just be a— Man? Can I be nothing but one person in an ocean of people, that loves another person deeply? Please, I beg of you, it’s— The only thing I want. I will ask nothing more of you, but this.”

He waited, barely breathing. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, in his temples, like a war drum. His sight was blurry with unshed tears that rose as he spoke in a low, soft voice. His fingers shivered just slightly, around the pen.

And then— The warmth in his chest. His eyes fluttered close as he let out a single, soft sob, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“Thank you—“ he let out, choked. “Thank you. Oh, _thank you_—“

He took some moments to calm down, opening his eyes with a sniff when he felt ready. The tip of the pen hovered just above the line, and then he put it down, and signed.

He took out an an already stamped envelope from the folder, carefully folded the fully compiled form with delicate fingers, and slid it in. The envelope was closed, the address was already there. All he had to do, now, was drop it in the post box along the road.

He felt his knees tremble as he stood, keeping the folder against his chest. He kept his back to the altar until he was sure he could move, and then turned.

For an instant, he saw a woman smile benevolently at him, but she was gone the instant after.

He kneeled, bowing deeply, deeply enough that his forehead touched the ground. Nothing more needed to be added. He rose back up on his feet, took the white collar off of his neck, and walked one last time down the aisle, out in the soft white flakes fluttering gently.

He felt… Tranquil.

There was a post box at an intersection right before his apartment complex. Folder under an armpit and envelope in hand he stood in front of it. The envelope made a soft, little ‘whup’ sound, as it fell inside the box. Distractedly, he went to roll the ring that wasn’t around his little finger anymore, a gesture he hadn’t been able to shake off quite yet. Not after twenty years of doing so.

Anthony had, almost shyly, tried to give him the ring back, about five days after that night. He’d left it on the grand piano. He told Anthony he didn’t need it anymore, and that he could throw it away, sell it, whatever he preferred. He didn’t know what Anthony had done with it.

He didn’t care to find out, either. It didn’t matter, not really.

He went up to his flat, ate a simple dinner, and went to sleep, smiling.

Just six more days.

—

New Year’s Eve fell on a Sunday, that year. The morning of, the doors of the church stayed close, as a confused little crowd stood in front of them, chattering.

“Do you think he’s sick? Last week Alex had a cold, I told him to stay home, but he wanted to see that movie— “

“Dorothy, want to go check?”

“Might just be a bit late— Happens to the best of us!“

“Maybe Anthony knows where he is.”

The chitchat lowered and fell silent when an anonymous black car crunched to a stop on the gray snow piled at the side of the road, and a young priest with dark hair and nose reddened by the cold climbed down, blinking at the confused little crowd.

“Good morning, there! Sorry for the lateness, I was told I had to come here very last minute— I’m Father Zachary, I will stay here as a substitute for the time being—“

“A substitute?” a certain Robert Redford asked, already sounding suspicious. “Why?”

“I— Oh, you haven’t been told, then—“ Father Zachary replied, looking slightly embarrassed. “Father— Well, I guess just Mr. Fell, now, has been released from his duties. He has— Resigned, if you will.”

A scandalized, shocked gasp rose from half the crowd. The other half, composed of people that would claim they had _working eyes, thank you very much,_ if you were to ask, launched a knowing look to one another, and smiled.

They would miss the kind Father Aziraphale, for sure, but it was about time the man did something about his obvious feelings for one Anthony J. Crowley.

Said now-not-Father-anymore Aziraphale was currently sitting in a public library in the nearby city, where he had been in since early in the morning, taking advantage of the free computers and internet connection. He sat, relaxed, but there was a frown of deep focus etched in his face, tongue sticking out just slightly, as he squinted at the video he kept pausing to look down at the work sitting in his lap and follow the instructions. He was hoping it wouldn’t take too long, because he had a specific appointment he couldn’t miss, and then he’d have to catch the bus back. Thankfully this idea he had was the winning one, because things were proceeding at a brisk pace.

It was a couple of hours after lunchtime that he finally finished, and held up the fruits of his labour with a critical eye. The— Handmade touch was undeniable, but that was kind of the whole point, wasn’t it? He put everything in his messenger bag, very carefully, and went out, sinking in the constant foot traffic coming and going on the sidewalk. He grabbed a quick bite at a fish and chips stall just to quiet his stomach, fishing the post-it note from his pocket as he munched on the last chips, and glancing at the directions he wrote for himself. He didn’t get lost, did what he had to do with a bit of lateness, and then hurried back to the bus stop with his arms cradling a pink box carefully, a plastic bag hanging from his elbow.

On the bus he primly sat down on the first free seat he could grab, gingerly deposited the box on his knees, and then carefully started to wrap everything with the colourful, shiny paper and bows he bought, smiling to himself. Butterflies fluttered about in him, and he let them be.

It was dark, as he crunched his way through old snow toward the cottage, up the little pathway. He stopped in front of the door, took a deep breath, and knocked three times.

—

Crowley had for a hopeful, dreadful, wishful, terrifying hour thought that Aziraphale might actually not come.

They had agreed on seven in the afternoon, quietly, over a tea two days prior. Actually, Aziraphale had told him “Does seven work for you, on Sunday?” without a hint of doubt in his voice, and Crowley had replied with an affirmative “Ngksf—“, and Aziraphale had smiled over his mug and added “It’s a date, then,” and Crowley had replied with a strangled “Ajgkj—“

(He would never admit that. He was a Demon with Dignity, for Something’s sake.)

But eight was fast approaching on the clock, and Aziraphale wasn’t there yet. Crowley tried to convince himself it was for the better. Aziraphale must’ve changed his mind, surely, and realized he was better off just keeping things on the ‘friendship’ plane.

All for the better. Too bad his stomach wasn’t agreeing, twisting itself like the snake Crowley was with anxiety and self-doubts.

And then, three knocks, and the stomach un-knotted itself, releasing a little relieved sigh, and his entire body went limp, the traitorous sack of meat that he had to lug around.

When he opened the door, hoping his expression wouldn’t give away too much, Aziraphale grinned at him from behind a light azure scarf, his nose red from the cold and his hair vaguely (more) ruffled.

“I’m so sorry about the lateness, dear!” he immediately said, voice charged with emotions that had no right to just sound so _clear_. “The— Things I had to do took me a bit longer that I expected and had to take another bus. Can I— Uh, come in?”

Crowley realized he was just standing there with a hand still over the door handle and rushed on a side, clearing his throat.

“ ’S ok, I hadn’t even noticed you were late,” the lying liar said as Aziraphale carefully cleaned his heels from any stray snow on the doormat, before entering. “Need a hand?”

“Ah, yes, thank you—“ Aziraphale replied in a huff, gently depositing a pink box in Crowley’s arms. “That needs to go in the fridge,” Aziraphale added, as he uncoiled the scarf and slid out of his puffy coat, leaving both on the coat rack by the door. Crowley stared.

Aziraphale was wearing a soft looking, dark gray sweater with a cable knit pattern and black, carefully ironed slacks. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, and yet he looked like he _glowed_. Maybe it was simply the way he held himself, his shoulders more relaxed and the little tilt of his head, as he looked back.

Crowley felt silly. He _might_ have overdressed. He was wearing a black three piece suit, although the jacket he shed during the hour wait was currently draped on one of the kitchen’s chairs, with a silky waistcoat hugging his slender waist _very_ tightly. The waistcoat had a damask pattern, albeit a very subtle one, only noticeable when the light hit just right.

Still, going by the appreciative once over he was receiving, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind his decision to dress like he was just about to get married. In fact, he outright expressed said appreciation, cheeks pinking. “You look gorgeous, dear.”

“Thanks—“ Crowley managed to reply, breathless. It was certainly better than one of his usual inarticulate noises. “I’ll— This. Fridge. Right.”

Aziraphale followed with a little chuckle as he went for the kitchen, and then sniffed the air.

“Oh, this does smell delicious,” he commented in a low voice, while Crowley carefully put the mysterious pink box in the fridge.

“That’d be the roast beef, was just about to be done, uh— Sit down?” Crowley offered a chair, keeping his hand on the backrest as Aziraphale graciously accepted, his cheeks pinking again while a little smile pulled at his lips. Crowley cleared his throat softly, and got to work.

There were already a variety of plates scattered on the prepared table, with chopped potatoes and vegetables, croutons, slices of pears and green apples, seedless grapes. Crowley willed his brain to _shut up_ for a minute, as he busied himself with the first step of their dinner.

“Oooh, _fancy_,” Aziraphale chuckled when Crowley turned around to deposit the fondue set between them, and then taking the wine out of the fridge. He finally sat in front of Aziraphale, after pouring him a glass.

Well, the minute was over, his brain screamed, and off it went working at full speed. He couldn’t stop thinking about how absurd it was, that this was really happening, that he had been such a coward and decided to stay up to his point, that he was actually going to just— Roll along with whatever was going to happen in the next few hours.

Couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Aziraphale was actually there, after an entire month since The Night of the Kiss. He was there with not a trace of doubt on him, sitting in front of Crowley looking absolutely, astonishingly beautiful, _glowing_ with that little smile of his, and Crowley was about to die. This was the real danger. Not Holy Water, not Angels descending to smite, no. Sitting in front of this man that filled Crowley’s chest with something that threatened to burst out at any second. This was _the_ danger.

_This_ was the way to kill a Demon: Make them fall in love with a human.

“Are you nervous, dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, his right hand reaching across the table to gently rest his fingers on top of Crowley’s. Crowley worked his throat.

“…Yes,” he admitted, because it was pointless to deny it.

“I am, too, a little bit,” Aziraphale said, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. But then he looked back up, smile widening. “If we are both nervous, then we don’t need to really be, don’t you think?”

“You don’t look very nervous,” Crowley muttered, but then sighed, trying to relax and letting his shoulders droop a bit. Aziraphale chuckled.

“Ah, no, I assure you that I am,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just that— I’m also happy. I’m more happy than nervous, so— Maybe you can try that too?” he seemed to falter, just slightly, as his fingers twitched on top of Crowley. “Well, that is, unless I make you more nervous than happy—“

Crowley _immediately_ rushed to slide his fingers through Aziraphale’s, hooking his fingertips on Aziraphale’s knuckles.

“No,” he said, vaguely strangled. “No. No, you make me very happy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” was the low voiced, but clearly satisfied, reply. That finally seemed to break through the veil of nerves, and with a shared chuckle they finally started onto the dinner, their fingers remaining entwined on top of the table. They slid in their usual comfortable conversation, just talking about this or that as they distractedly stabbed various pieces of food with the thin, long forks, to dip in the bowl of cheese in the middle. More than a couple of times there had been a “Ah, you’ve got to try this—“, followed by offering their own bite to the other, as if they couldn’t simply reach over one of the bowls and take one themselves.

The roast beef started to smell suspiciously burnt at some point, the two of them too engrossed in one another to pay the oven any mind, and Crowley released a little curse under his breath, followed by Aziraphale’s amused laugh. He might’ve cheated a bit, hunching over the oven so Aziraphale couldn’t see and poking the oven tray a couple of times to bring the beef back to a perfectly cooked state.

“Dear, this is _magnificent_. I guess it wasn’t this, that was burning,” Aziraphale had commented, delighted after the first bite, and Crowley heaved an internal relieved sigh.

Plates and wine bottle empty, they moved into the living room. Crowley had just sat down cross legged on the carpet, in front of the fireplace, when Aziraphale exclaimed “Just a second!” and disappeared back in the corridor. He emerged with the leather-y messenger bag that had clearly seen many years of use, colour faded near the seams. He sat down by Crowley’s side, depositing it in his lap.

“Well— Happy birthday, Anthony,” he said softly, as he took out two gifts wrapped in shiny golden paper and red bows, handing them over. One was extremely thin, almost paper-like, and as Crowley took it Aziraphale added. “Open this one, first,” putting the second one, bigger and soft, in his lap. Crowley gaped at the packages

He wasn’t sure he had ever received gifts, before— Had he? He hardly counted the jewels and expensive dinners and nights spent in luxurious rooms he was given through the centuries as gifts. Those were just things meant to lure him in, given by humans who believed _they_ were doing the tempting.

But what he was holding now were— Real gifts. Something that someone got for him, just because they cared.

But he couldn’t say that. It would sound strange, a human who not even once had received a gift. So he just nodded, and worked his throat as he carefully ripped the shiny wrapping open.

The soft gift contained a big lump of extremely soft black wool with stripes of dark gray mixed in. He sunk his hands in it, emerging with two gloves, first.

“Oh, I do hope they fit you—“ Aziraphale interjected somewhat fretting, taking over to put one on Crowley’s hand, clearly anxious. “I had to— Wing it, as they say, for the length of the fingers.”

The fingers were just a tad too long, but it was barely noticeable, and Crowley experimentally tightened his fist a couple of times. It was already warming up his hand, feeling unbearably soft.

“…You made these?” he asked, breathless, when the meaning of what Aziraphale just said finally sunk in.

“Well, yes— The scarf, too,” Aziraphale replied, sounding vaguely embarrassed, and Crowley realized there was more. He put both hands, one gloved and one not, on the bigger lump of wool, and held it up. It was a long scarf, vertical lines spanning the length of it. On one end of it there was a dark green snake forming a little S, a tiny red tongue sticking out.

“Maybe— That was a bit silly, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said in front of his silent staring at the cute knitted snake, fingertips brushing it. “I took inspiration from your little tattoo, of course. I thought it’d give it a bit more personality? But if you don’t like it—“

Crowley blinked, and abruptly realized that his apparent lack of reaction was clearly making Aziraphale feel self conscious. How— How silly. Aziraphale had no idea of what this was doing to Crowley’s chest, hadn’t he?

“I mean— I didn’t really know what to get you, so I thought something hand-made made sense, but,” Aziraphale was nervously saying, almost babbling at that point, and fell silent when Crowley grabbed his wrist. Crowley gaped, having no idea how to even convey into words what he was feeling.

“…I love them,” he finally croaked. “I’ve never— No one has ever given me something hand-made. I love them. Thank you, Aziraphale.”

“_Oh_—“ Aziraphale breathed, faint. “You— Really?”

“I don’t think there’s quite anything in the world that says ‘I care about you’ as much as a hand-made gift does. The time and effort put into it— They speak volumes. I love them, they are perfect.”

He somehow managed to speak with a stable tone, despite his heart hammering in his throat, as they looked at one another. Aziraphale _beamed_.

Crowley let out a shaky breath, and carefully took off the one glove, pressing it against the other and depositing those, along with the scarf, in his lap. He technically didn’t need to wear winter clothing. He could go in the snow naked and not feel a thing, if he wanted to, but he was going to wear those until the end of times. He was going to wear them in the _summer_, too, no one could stop him. They could _die_, trying to stop him.

Back at looking much more pleased, Aziraphale took the thin-like-a-paper-sheet gift from the carpet, where it had been momentarily deposited.

“I— I hope you won’t think I’m being conceited, when you open this,” he murmured, handing it over. Still vaguely speechless, Crowley accepted it, peeling the piece of tape on one end, and sliding out the content.

It seemed like a black and white copy of a document. Crowley blinked, and took a moment to read, and—

“…_What_?” he exhaled, eyes going wide. Aziraphale said nothing. “Oh— No, Aziraphale, you _can’t_—“

“Well, it’s already done, really,” Aziraphale interjected, not unkindly. “I mailed it on Christmas. Quicker affair than I imagined, surprisingly. Everything went through right away— As of yesterday, I’m not a priest anymore. And, huh— Unemployed, I’d imagine.”

Crowley put the copy down with vaguely trembling fingers, gaping at Aziraphale. Aziraphale let out a huff.

“Don’t look at me like that— Regardless of what your answer will be, it’s something I would have done. I just decided to get it over with before today.”

“My— Answer?”

Aziraphale smiled, crow’s feet deepening at the sides of his eyes. “Your answer to this: I love you, Anthony.”

_This is unfair,_ Crowley thought, releasing a strangled noise, _you didn’t even give me a single warning—_

Except, well, Aziraphale had tried to tell him a month prior, and accepted to leave that confession interrupted upon Crowley’s own insistence. Crowley laughed, almost hysterical, a hand rising to partially cover his face.

“I can’t believe you—“ he managed to wheeze, incredulous. “You are— You are unbelievable.”

“Am I?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat amused.

“Yes. Yes, you are— Oh, I’m screwed, aren’t I?” Crowley laughed again, as tears prickled in his eyes. “I am. I’m _so_ screwed— But, oh— I love you too. I’m _screwed_, and I _love_ you.”

A soft gasp managed to finally cut through the maddening soup of _everything_ stirring in Crowley’s chest, coming out as uncontrolled, hysterical chuckles, and he looked over his own fingers. Aziraphale was staring at him with an expression simply impossible to decipher, his eyes so intense it made Crowley feel as if he was being gazed upon by a being even more supernatural than Crowley himself was.

“…You do?” Aziraphale whispered, barely controlled.

“Wha— Yes, of course I do! Wasn’t that clear enough, last month?!” Crowley replied, a mix of incredulity and hilarity in his voice. Aziraphale worked his throat.

“I— Well,” he started, careful. “I just— Wasn’t sure. You can never be sure of what someone else might be feeling, after all, and I— Didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment, I guess?”

Crowley’s mouth fell shut, and he stared.

“So you just… Said it? Even if you weren’t sure I felt the same?” he then managed to croak out, heart doing something funny in his throat.

“It’s how I feel,” Aziraphale replied, as if that explained _everything_, sounding careless.

_Humans are crazy. They are _ ** _insane_ ** _— I can’t believe—_

“Shit— I’ve been really unfair to you, haven’t I?” Crowley murmured as understanding slammed over his shoulders like a bucket of ice cold water. “Just straight up told you to— Just interrupted you and asked you to wait a _month_— How have you not clocked me in the face yet?”

Much to his ever growing surprise, Aziraphale laughed.

“You had a point, that night. I was— Well, not exactly in a stable place, and— Tied to a very specific role, having pledged a vow of chastity, so, huh— It was fairly reasonable, I’d say.”

_No. No it wasn’t, not when— Not when every day has to count. When I will lose you in the blink of an eye, I will have to keep living without you, and I wasted a whole month being an _ ** _idiot_ ** _—_

“Oh, Anthony, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, so gentle, and warm, and impossibly loving. Soft fingers brushed Crowley’s jaw, rising along his cheek. Crowley belatedly realized traitorous tears were rolling down on it. “It’s alright, love, no need to cry. We are here, now.”

He tried to reply, not even knowing which words to choose. He tried, but only a strangled sob came out of his mouth, and he leaned in, pushing his forehead against Aziraphale’s neck, as Aziraphale’s arms circled him.

It— It _burned_.

With a gasp, Crowley leaned back, looking up into Aziraphale’s eyes. He could— Still see it. That armour of holiness, like a faint neon light through the fog.

“You—“

“I what, dear?”

“You— You still—“

Aziraphale frowned down at him, clearly concerned as Crowley trailed off. He gently brushed a tuft of red hair away from Crowley’s forehead, his fingertips sliding along his scalp, and, _oh_— Yes, it _stung_, in that pain that did not really hurt. But it was there.

_He’s still— Not corrupted. Oh, thank _ ** _whoever_ ** _—_

“Am I what, dear?” Aziraphale gently pushed as the silence stretched, and Crowley let out a trembly huff.

“Nothing. I don’t know, I’m just— You’re here, and you love me, and nothing makes sense, and yet it does?” he then said, words cascading out in a rush, making Aziraphale chuckle.

“I know what you mean. It’s— So strange, but we are here. And you… You love _me_,” he closed his eyes, the sweetest little sigh leaving his lips. “I’m so _happy_—“

“I can feel it,” Crowley murmured, almost drunk on _everything_ he could taste in the air around them. Aziraphale chuckled, pushing a sweet little kiss that stung like gentle fire above his right eye, and then nuzzling his hair with a little hum. Crowley adjusted himself on the carpet, sitting snug between Aziraphale’s legs, arms sliding around his waist, and Aziraphale’s hands slid down Crowley’s shoulders and on his back, massaging little circles over the silky fabric of the waistcoat.

“…Can we stay like this forever?” Crowley asked, faint, the question not quite aimed at Aziraphale. But it was Aziraphale, who answered.

“I do wish we could, my dear. I would like it very much. My legs might get a bit cramped, though, I’m afraid,” he murmured, placing another soft kiss on Crowley’s hairline. “Also, I have one more surprise for you, and that’ll require us to get up, I’d imagine.”

“Do you?”

“It’s in that box I gave you. Although we can wait just a bit longer. Open it before midnight.”

“Perfect,” Crowley said, closing his eyes as he rested his head back down on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Even if just for a handful of hours, he wanted to— Stop. Stop thinking, stop worrying, pretend to be a man that just turned forty-six, and was spending the last day of the year with someone he loved.

Aziraphale seemed more than content to feed in that fantasy, because he adjusted his position to be more comfortable, squeezing Crowley closer to himself, and said nothing, just kept stroking his hair and occasionally brushing his lips on Crowley’s forehead and cheeks, as they sat in silence in front of the fire.

—

Ten minutes before midnight they went into the kitchen, and Aziraphale took the pink box out of the fridge. When he deposited it on the marble countertop and opened it gingerly, he was relieved to see the content all in one piece. Anthony let out a tiny noise at his side.

“A birthday deserves a cake, right?” Aziraphale offered with a little grin, fully opening the lid of the box. It was a simple thing, a sponge cake with a spicy dark chocolate ganache inside and outside, the dark color dusted with edible gold glitter and just vaguely crooked tufts of whipped cream, completed with some wild berries sprinkled in a ring around the entire circumference of the cake. He really hoped Anthony would like it— He never expressed a preference for sweets, but he seemed to enjoy spicy condiments, and the spicy dark chocolate seemed exactly like the kind of taste Anthony would enjoy.

“Did you make this, too?” Anthony asked, his hands hovering above the cake as if he was even afraid to touch it. Aziraphale hummed.

“With some help, admittedly,” he added, amused, as he took the candles tucked under the rigid plastic base of the cake. “There’s this quite nifty bakery that allows you to rent their materials and make your own cake, and help a bit, if you need it. It was quite fun, but also the reason I ran late.”

“Oh—“ Anthony said, and then stood there, looking dangerously like he was about to burst into tears. Definitely not wanting to make him cry again, Aziraphale rushed to unwrap the candles, carefully sticking them in one spot free of fruit and whipped cream.

“Oh, I forgot to bring a lighter— Do you have something, my dear?”

“Yeah, sure,” Anthony replied still sounding vaguely strangled, almost randomly sticking a hand in a drawer and emerging with an anonymous black lighter. “Here ya go.”

Aziraphale ignited the candles, and then turned the cake around toward Anthony, the ‘4’ and ‘6’ releasing little golden sprinkles as the flames ignited. Anthony looked down at it, and then up at Aziraphale.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, amused.

“What?”

“You have to blow on them, dear.”

“Do I?”

“Yes! Goodness, Anthony, when was the last time you had a birthday cake?” Aziraphale let out in a half amused, half sad laugh. “You have to blow on them, extinguish the flames. Oh, don’t forget to make a wish!”

“A wish?” The poor man looked like a confused puppy. Aziraphale patted his hand.

“You have to make a wish while you blow on the candles, but don’t tell me what you wished for, or it won’t come true.”

“I— Sure. Alright,” Anthony muttered, but then he leaned in just a bit, blowing on the candles, the flames and sparkles flickering off. He looked at the thin line of smoke rising from the charred wicks, and his voice seemed to go back to normal, as he asked “what kind of cake is it?”

“Let’s cut it, and you’ll find out,” Aziraphale replied with a curled smile, helping himself from the cutlery drawer and the cupboard for the necessary. Midnight was fast approaching, as the two slices were served. They sat back at the table, pushing aside plates that stayed there from the dinner, sitting side by side rather than in front of one another, with a visual of the window. Anthony’s amber eyes seemed to almost lit up on their own, when he took the first bite.

“Oooh, this is amazing, you know me so well—“ he then sighed, melting on the table. Aziraphale laughed, pleased and delighted. They managed to finish the slices with barely seconds to spare, the clock in the corner ticking.

“Completely forgot to take the champagne out the cellar, I’m such an idiot—“ Anthony grunted, looking into the very champagne-free fridge, and Aziraphale just tugged at his hand.

“C’mon, it doesn’t matter, come here!” He rushed to say, pulling toward the window. “You have a good view of Mr. Oakes’ hill from here, they always light up fireworks on New Year’s Eve!”

They stood in front of the window right on time, the golden sparkle visible in the distance darting for the air and exploding in a colourful rain, rapidly followed by more.

“They are really going all out this year,” Aziraphale commented, delighted, eyes pointed at the spectacle in the dark sky. “The farm must’ve been doing good.”

“Mmmmh,” Anthony said, sounding almost smug, for some reason. His slender arm circled Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he let himself get pulled in with no resistance, lazily sliding his own arms around Anthony’s waist. Anthony’s pointy chin gently landed on Aziraphale’s hair. “No champagne, though. I can’t believe I forgot.”

“Oh, my dear— We can celebrate with another tradition, I think,” Aziraphale offered, voice lowering slightly, and heart going that bit faster. Anthony hummed, questioning.

Aziraphale stepped back, not entirely out of the hug. Just enough to be able to look up. The fireworks were still going, painting Anthony’s red hair and the strong lines of his cheeks in splashes of color.

_So blessedly gorgeous—_

“You know— People share a kiss, at the start of a new year. It’s meant to be good luck. I think.”

Anthony went very still, amber eyes almost flashing for an instant.

“…Do they?” he then asked, and his voice had dropped significantly, as nimble fingers rose to brush the line of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Mh-mh,” Aziraphale hummed affirmatively, sliding his palm from Anthony’s waist down to his hip, and up along his chest. Anthony let out a tiny, shuddering breath.

“Well— If it’s tradition, then,” he said, almost a whisper. and when he leaned in, Aziraphale let himself go boneless tipping his head up as necessary, eyes fluttering close. The kiss tasted of dark chocolate and it burned, not just for the spice.

It sent a shiver of pleasure right down his spine.

They didn’t stop kissing, not even when the firework came to an end and the sky went dark again.

They didn’t stop.

—

“…I’ll have to move out, maybe leave entirely,” Aziraphale murmured against his collarbone. Crowley kept silent, just kept carding his fingers through the soft, blond-white curls. “I’d like to go to London, maybe. Unless you’d rather stay here…”

His voice was growing softer and sleepier. Crowley kept silent, just kept caressing Aziraphale’s naked shoulder with his other hand.

“I’ll go whenever you go,” he finally murmured, staring at the ceiling. Aziraphale let out a little, huffy laugh, and placed a slow, sleepy kiss right in the middle of Crowley’s exposed chest.

“I’ll have to find a job, too,” he then said, voice almost a whisper. “Might be a bit difficult, after twenty years in that sort of career…”

“You’ll do just fine, Aziraphale,” Crowley promised softly, as he would make it so with his own hands.

“Mmmh… Anthony…”

“Yeah?”

“Love you…”

Crowley did not reply, and a few seconds later Aziraphale’s breath went soft and regular.

Crowley’s breath didn’t. It went strangled, and choked.

Slowly, he slid out of the embrace. Aziraphale did not wake.

Not that he could. Crowley would make sure he’d keep sleeping peacefully, dreaming of whatever he liked best.

He went around the room, dressing himself the human way just to take a minute, as he tried to reign his traitorous throat back. But the traitorous throat stayed stubbornly tight, every breath he tried to take coming in choked.

He kneeled by the bedside, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair as a bit of demonic miracle dressed him in a pajama summoned from Aziraphale’s flat. Crowley leaned in, placing a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead.

“I love you too,” he managed to let out, voice cracking. “Now— Now you— Ah, _fuck_— Now, listen, love. You will forget me. I’ve never been here. You— Your life will be nice, I promise. You will do what makes you happy, and it will be successful. You will never have to worry about rent, or bills, or putting food on the table. You will live comfortably, doing what you wish to do. A-and you will forget me, like I’ve never existed. B-but you won’t forget my love. It’ll stay with you. It’ll keep you safe and warm. Even if you will not remember me, you will still know that you are loved, and that you deserve everything in the world, and that you won’t be alone. You will feel that love, and it’ll be there for you if you ever feel lonely. It’ll be there when you’ll be sad, and when you’ll need a hug. It will always be there. But now— Now you will f-forget me—“ a sob escaped his lips, and he took a second to breathe with a shiver, before continuing. “She— She will forgive you. You’ve done nothing wrong. Even if we— It was for love. Your soul will look corrupted, but just for a short while, just long enough to get people off of your tail. And then She’ll forgive you, and you’ll go back to being your magnificent, holy self, alright? You will never see a day of Hell. I promise.”

Traitorous tears fell down, breaking into smaller drops on Aziraphale’s cheek. Traitorous lungs shook Crowley as he coughed a sob, as a small whine rose from his throat.

But he leaned in again, and with one last, lingering kiss he sealed that one sided Demonic Pact, and then sent Aziraphale in his flat, in his bed, still dreaming of whatever he liked best.

Coming the first lights of a new year, Anthony J. Crowley had disappeared, had been purged from the memory of that village, as if he had never been there in the first place.


	6. Chapter 6

—6—

There were details Crowley hadn’t, in virtue of many facts, any idea about.

Like the fact that if he had kissed Aziraphale even for a second longer as he gave him that send off, he’d have realized that the contact still burnt. And maybe that a good chunk of this holiness firmly soldered on Aziraphale like a second skin had been strengthened by Crowley’s presence, rather than weakened.

The detail that nothing Crowley could possibly do would have ever corrupted Aziraphale. Nor anyone else could have. His soul was simply untouchable.

Maybe it was because of his past, of his work during his years as a priest, of his generosity that seemed to have no end. Maybe it was because he had worked so tirelessly to repent for endless sins he hadn’t committed, gaining a special place in the eyes of God.

(She wasn’t supposed to play favorites, but some of them were simply so— Earnestly irresistible.)

The reason hardly mattered, really.

And maybe, had Crowley decided to stop and think, he would’ve known that a one sided Pact, even a Demonic one, would be frail. Not as unbreakable as he thought it would be. Certainly not one touched by an unyielding force such as Love.

Aziraphale would certainly live a comfortable life, doing what he loved to do. He’d certainly feel that endless pouring of love that Crowley had left in him, shining like stars, never ending. And that would be the technicality that broke the Pact. The one loophole that would make it partly null.

Because it’s impossible to forget from where that kind of love could be coming from. Not when it was as earnestly reciprocated from the subject of this love as it was. Love was stronger than any Pact, even one made by a Demon with a lot of wit and a good deal of creativity harnessed expertly.

Aziraphale woke up the morning of the new year feeling enveloped in a sense of contentedness and warmth, sleepily looking around his room as he lazed in bed just five more minutes. He went about his day, slowly, with the intention of taking just a few more days after his resignation to relax, before setting on the search of a new job. Taking strolls, greeting all those who had known him as Father Aziraphale first. Telling them he just felt like it was time to retire, when they asked why he stepped down from his role.

Whenever he went, he felt so warm, so tranquil. He felt as if there was something constantly keeping its arms around him, cradling him gently. It was such a nice feeling— But as they days slowly went, Aziraphale started to feel— Unsettled.

Like something was missing. Like there was a someone-shaped hole by his side, that he could not fill in any way.

He wanted to love back, but he couldn’t. The warmth would be there, enveloping him, but it was untouchable. And Aziraphale wanted to love it back so desperately. He wished nothing more than to love this love back, to wrap his arms around it just as it was doing with him. But he couldn’t.

And then memories started to come back, prompted by small details. Why did he have two cups above his sink? He usually only kept one, any other cups were taken out of the drawer in case of a visitor— And he vaguely remembered someone using the second cup frequently enough to warrant keeping it above the sink, but he couldn’t pin-point the details of this person, as if the memory of their presence was blurred.

Why was there a book about gardening on his couch? He’d never taken an interest in gardening, and he could vaguely smell the scent of a cologne that was not his, as if someone had sat on his flowery couch to read that book many, many times, and yet he couldn’t tell exactly how it happened, nor when, like trying to see through a deep fog.

Why was there a skein of black, gray striped wool in his basket? He never used those kind of dark colors. And he could vaguely recall his own giddiness as he picked that exact shade in the shop, thinking it’d be perfect for… For whom?

He wandered, confused, and kept seeing things that made his head spin with bouts of deja-vu that almost left him breathless.

He wandered, until he walked down a street where a specific cottage stood. When he passed in front of it he stopped, breath catching in his throat.

He… Knew this place.

Yes, logically he knew, he’d seen it from the outside many, many times.

But he _knew_ this place.

Slowly, he opened the fence gate, walked up the path. The door opened for him, without him even noticing.

The inside was a triumph of a rustic but modern style. The place looked like it had only recently stopped being lived in, dust only now starting to settle. Aziraphale walked in the kitchen, and his fingers brushed the marble countertop like it was speaking to him.

He went down the corridor, looked in the rooms. They were murmuring.

He turned back, and ventured in the living room. There was something covered by a sheet in a corner, that was pulling him toward it like a magnetic force. So he went, and slid the sheet off, revealing a grand piano. His hands were trembling, when he caressed the lid, and trembled even harder as he rose the fall board, revealing the ivory keys under.

The moment he touched one, it all came rushing back.

_A man under the rain, looking up at him with eyes that begged for help— Badly hidden gratitude in the depth of those amber irises— A smile like a secret, flaming red curls brushing on sharp cheekbones— A kiss in the night, the golden ring glinting from the lid of the piano— A promise, a birthday gift, a night spent together—_

“_Anthony_—“ he choked out, on his knees in front of the piano, hands hanging on the brim of it. Tears dropped on the parquet, shattering in smaller drops.

_Oh_, Aziraphale thought, as anguish filled his chest, rose in his throat like poison, even if the sense of love was desperately trying to fight the anguish back, _how could I— How could I just— Forget about him? What happened? Why— Why is the cottage empty? How did I _**_forget_**_ about him?!_

“ANTHONY!” he called out, loud and broken, as he forced himself back up on his feet. “Anthony— This isn’t funny!” he added, as terror seized his lungs, as the sense of love cried for its failure to keep him content. “Anthony, _please_—“

He ran around the rooms, looking under beds, inside the closet, anywhere a man as tall as Anthony could reasonably be hiding. He dashed into the garden, when no Anthony was to be found inside, and moved through now dying plants, looking in the tool shed. He ran out onto the road, tears rolling down his cheeks, breath short and panicked as he looked around frantically.

The Bentley wasn’t anywhere, either. He tried to call out Anthony’s name once more, but failed, devolving into broken coughs. But he kept moving along the streets, looking around, until he met someone— They stopped him, gentle hands on his shoulders, a concerned voice asking him what was wrong.

“Do you remember Anthony?” he managed to ask between increasingly shorter breaths, his head light, the tears not stopping.

They didn’t. He ran, and kept asking whoever he met.

No one remembered Anthony.

In the end, he sat down on the sidewalk, and cried. He curled into a ball, hands pulling at his own hair, as his body desperately tried to keep breathing, and sobs shook him. Someone tried to talk to him, tender touches on his back, but he could not respond. After what felt like an eternity, someone pulled him up on his feet, guided him into an ambulance. He kept quiet as they drove him to a hospital.

He didn’t tell anyone he remembered a man who seemed to not exist. He smiled, and said that it was just a panic attack. It happened, sometimes.

He didn’t tell anyone he loved a man who seemed to not exist. He did not tell anyone about his voice and his smile and his gentle hands. He didn’t tell anyone about how pleasing it was to speak with him, and to hear him laugh. He did not tell anyone about how his arms had made Aziraphale feel protected and his eyes had made Aziraphale feel adored.

He spent only a few more days back in his flat, before it all became too much and he moved out. He lied, telling his fellow citizens he was going to be with his family for a while, not wanting them to worry for him.

He went to London, instead. The sense of love never left him, always with its arms around his shoulders, but it was— Dimmed. Not for any fault of its own, no. It was simply that it could not fight against a grief that had taken root in Aziraphale’s soul, impossible to chase away. The sense of love kept Aziraphale company, as he found something to do that he loved, just as the Pact promised. As he found a place to stay warm and safe, and never had trouble paying his rent and his bills and putting food on the table, just as the Pact promised.

But he _remembered_. He felt _alone_. He’d keep his eyes open in the streets, and searched, hoping, yearning, to see a familiar head of flaming red in the crowd.

He remembered. He felt alone. Those were two big terms of the Pact. That he wouldn’t remember, and he wouldn’t be alone. He remembered, and he was.

The Pact was broken.

And when Pacts are broken, especially ones that deserved a capital letter, there had to be consequences.

—

The man sitting on one of the benches in Plaça de Gaudí looked weird for a couple of reasons.

The first was that he was not gaping and pointing at the spires of the Sagrada Família, mouth forming a ‘O’ of wonder. Nor he was taking pictures that were taken in the exact same spots by hundreds of people before him, nor he was trying to take a picture that included him in it. He just sat there, on that bench, slouched back with a scowl on his face, long red hair collected in a messy bun, and sipped a beer.

The second was that, despite the sweltering temperatures of those first days of July, which he seemed to be aware of considering the upper side of his body was covered only by a short sleeved shirt, he was wearing a _very_ warm looking black and gray scarf and gloves made of the same wool. Sometimes kids would smile and point at the cute little snake knitted on one end of the scarf, and he’d made a face, as if he was trying to smile at them but failed miserably.

On the other hand, the people around him looked weird to him for one specific reason. Namely, the fact that they seemed to be beatifically ignoring the angular knight on a horse cut in stone that seemingly had decided to just get down from the passion façade of the Sagrada Família, and went on taking a stroll around, instead.

The horse threw its sharp head around as the knight pulled at its rigid mane, and then started to trot towards him.

Anthony J. Crowley looked at the beer in his hand, and then squinted at the label. Something really fucked had to be in there. Maybe it was an expired bottle?

“Well, hello there,” the knight greeted him as it stopped right by his bench. It had a feminine voice, vaguely muffled by its (her?) helmet.

“Huuuuh,” Crowley replied.

“Took me a bit to find you, you’re doing a very good job at staying hidden under all that brooding, honey,” the knight said.

“I’m not brooding,” Crowley snapped back, broodily.

“Sure you aren’t, sweetie, and I’m made of chewing gum. Scoot over a bit, will you? Stone horse— Not exactly comfortable.”

The knight hopped down the horse, who went on to try and nibble at the closest patch of grass, and then looked disgruntled as it realized its stone mouth would not pry open. The knight sat on the bench heavily.

“Here’s the deal,” it promptly started. “I told you to call if you needed it, and you _needed_ it, but you didn’t. So I told myself, ‘_ok, his choice. That’s the trouble with free will, once they discover it, they just go ahead and decide things for themselves, and who even thought up free will in the first place? You did, you idiot!_’, so I let you be. For all of five days, before that Pact you made was broken.”

“…What—”

“And you _know_, you are bright, son, you _know_ those Pacts don’t get to be _broken_. Not without consequences. But yours did, and well, consequences had to happen, so I went on searching for you. Surprisingly hard to find you, as I said. Masterful brooding, there, really mixed in amazingly with the general broodiness of humans.”

“Wait, what—“

“I got really lucky, honestly! That knitted snake on your scarf— It was imbued with love when it was being made, I can tell, and I bet it kept gaining more through all those children that keep noticing it, finding it lovable. I guess their eyes are attracted to it thanks to how _loved_ it has been from the start, and they just stockpiled on it, day in day out. I think it reached critical mass about— Five minutes ago, and finally beckoned me better than a chalk sigil circle could.”

“_Wait_—“

“So, now that we’ve got through the cliff notes of how I found you, I’ve got to ask, son: _What the fuck did you do?_”

Crowley gaped. The beer bottle had fallen from his gloved hand, at some point, and he nearly slipped comically on it as he jumped to his feet.

“What the fuck me?! What the fuck _you_!!!” he retorted, jamming a finger in the knight’s stone face. “Who do you think you are? Strolling in and speaking as if you know shit about—“

“Aziraphale?” the knight interjected promptly, and Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. The knight tutted. “The poor dear is heartbroken, son. Your Pact lasted for five days, before he remembered you. He’s been remembering since. He’s grieving. I don’t think he will ever stop.”

Crowley’s weakened, battered heart sunk to his feet, as he released a trembly “What? No, that can’t be—“

“But he is. I can show you.”

“NO!” Crowley screamed, strangled, and then rose his gloved fingers to grab at his hair, strands pulled out the bun. “No! No, it wasn’t meant to— How did he break the Pact?! He wasn’t meant to remember! This wasn’t supposed to happen! He’s only mortal, how could he break a Pact?!”

The knight sighed, and patted the empty spot at its side. Crowley sat down, knees trembling.

“Honey, _you_ gave him the means to do that. You literally armed him, and then told him not to brandish those weapons. Did you really think it was going to last?”

“_Wha_—“

“That love you left him. If you hadn’t left that there, he would have never remembered. But you gave that to him, you gave him a sword, and he _used_ it—“

“No, no, that doesn’t make any sense!”

“Doesn’t it? See, this is what I was saying. The trouble with free will. Decisions are made, and things happen—“

“Fucking _fuck_— Shut up with that bullshit! I don’t have a free will! I’m a _Demon_!”

“But you do, son,” the knight interjected, kindly. “You stood at a crossroad. You could’ve hurt Aziraphale, cursed his soul, and then kept walking, a Demonic job well done. But you stood there, looked at the possibilities, and chose to love him instead.”

“I didn’t— I never chose! It just happened!”

“Oh, yes, love is finicky like that— But you _chose_ to accept that love. That made all the difference, honey. You chose to accept, to break out the mold. Granted, you guys downstairs aren’t exactly as devoid of the ability to love as you believe you are. Some of you love to lick the walls, some of you love to— Huh— Maim and cause suffering in general. But you…” the knight turned around, pushing a stone finger right where Crowley’s unneeded human heart was. “You took a step further, and fell in love. And in that moment, you fully grabbed the free will that has always been inside you.”

“…You’re _shitting_ me.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t. Not about this. You all— Downstairs and Upstairs— Have your free wills. And you use them! You don’t realize it, because your free wills are just a tad harder to command than it is for humans, but they are there. You just so happen to be the first between both sides that has now full control over it.”

“You— Are you _serious_?” Crowley croaked back, enraged, and terrified, and wanting to melt into tears. “You put that in us and then went on demanding unflinching, unquestioning obedience? And kicked us out when it didn’t happen? You kicked me out for _asking questions_—“

“Oh, so you do grasp who I am.”

“Of course I do, I’m not a _fucking_ idiot, you _blessed_—“

“Oh, dear, thank you.”

“NO! I didn’t mean it like that! And you _know_ it!” Crowley groaned, running his fingers through his hair once more, and ruining the bun even more. “Why am I still talking to you, anyway? Fuck _off_ with your little jokes and mind games!” he added, rising from the bench and angrily stalking away.

“…Don’t you want to know where Aziraphale is?”

Crowley stopped.

“As I said, he’s grieving. He misses you, so very much. He will be very angry once you come back, no doubt— He’d demand answers. He might even kick you out— But he’ll forgive you, in the end, you know? He loves you too much, to stay angry.”

“…What— Would be the point?” Crowley whispered, without turning. “I don’t want him to suffer, of course I don’t, that was what the Pact was meant to do in the first place… But— For how long will he live? I get back, he’ll stay angry at me for however long he wants to stay angry, then he’ll forgive me, and then what? Do I get to be with him for how long: Ten, twenty years? Thirty? Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll live fifty more years, and then he will be gone. And I’ll be alone. I will never find anyone like him ever again—“

“You think so? With so many humans around, you think you won’t find someone else to be with?”

“It’s not a matter of— ‘Being with’. It’s— He’s one of a kind.”

“Humans tend to be that, yes.”

Finally, Crowley turned, facing the knight with tears in his eyes. He took the glasses off, allowing the knight to look into his tearful serpentine gaze.

“No, you don’t _understand_—“ he said, anguished. “He’s one of a kind. He’s— The most important, most precious— And I will never find anyone like him. I don’t _want_ to find anyone like him. I don’t want to love anyone else. He’s the one I want to love. The one I will love for the rest of eternity. Him, and no one else.”

The knight stayed quiet, and yet gave a feeling of being in the act of kindly smiling, from behind the sharply carved helmet.

“You really do love him, don’t you,” it asked, voice a light as a breeze. Crowley angrily dried his eyes, and put the sunglasses back on.

“Yeah, no fucking shit,” he muttered, possibly childish. He hardly cared. “Look—“ he started again with a sigh. “Tell me where he is and— I’ll go there, fix it. I’ll make sure the Pact stays unbroken, this time—“

“_Really_,” the knight interjected, harsh. It stood, turning its spear in an instant, the pointy end of it digging into Crowley’s chest. And, for the first time since they’d started talking, Crowley felt a shiver of an old, ethereal need of _being obedient_ trying to shake him from the inside out. “That is not what I came here for. I didn’t come here for you to keep acting like an utter idiot.”

Crowley stayed very, very still. “What did you came here for, then?”

“To make you see, _son_,” the knight continued, cold. “You are being given a chance, here. I won’t interject in the ways you use your free will, but I _will_ give you strong worded advice, if necessary. Do _not_ try to make another Pact. It won’t work. It didn’t the first time, and it won’t even if you try a hundred more. You’ve risen that human above humanity with your own hands, and now you have to deal with it.”

“What the _fuck_ am I supposed to _do_, then?!” Crowley screamed back, pushing the spear away to take a step forward, arms thrown at his sides. “You talk and talk and fucking _talk_, but at the end of the day you are the same old, cryptic _bastard_ you’ve always been!”

“I talk and talk, but you don’t listen!” the knight reprimanded, the point of the spear back against Crowley’s heart. “Listen! _Think_! You have a free will! You have powers! You have imagination! You’ve armed a _mortal_ with capabilities that are anything but! _Think_, Crowley!”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply. Then stopped. He silently gaped, eyes moving about behind the glasses.

“…Holy _shit_,” he then let out, in an exhale, mouth hanging open.

The spear was retreated, the knight seemed to shrink back to its normal size, not looking over the Demon anymore. Crowley moved abruptly, as if wanting to run. He turned on his feet. He pulled at his hair some more.

“…Where is he?” he then asked, voice trembling.

“London. Soho. You will feel it,” the knight replied, mild.

“I— Fuck, shit— I— Ok, no, I won’t say _thank you_, I— We are even. You kicked me out, but you also helped me out. We are even, now. Deal?”

Wordlessly, smiling from behind its helmet, the knight offered a stony hand, and a stonier handshake was had.

“Gotta go, now. _Ciao_!”

“Crowley, wait!” the knight called, and Crowley found in his very short well of patience a small drop of it to give. He turned. “Which places should I visit? Since I’m here, might as well take a vacation.”

“Parc Güell, Museu Picasso, huuh— Anything designed by Gaudí is pretty fucking nifty, to be honest. Go to La Boqueria if you want the complete tourist experience— The view from hill Montjuïc is cool—“

“What about that?” the knight asked, pointing at the Sagrada Família. Crowley launched it an unamused look.

“You _know_ I can’t go in there, you fucker. Saw pictures, though. Looks pretty.”

The knight chuckled. “Alright, dude, thank you. Do go get your man, now.”

“_Jes_— Don’t ever talk like that _ever_ again.”

The knight laughed, but the Demon had already popped out of Plaça de Gaudí, and reappeared some ways around 1,500 kilometres north.

—

Aziraphale closed the shop door behind himself with a bit of difficulty, considering he was using his elbow. He huffed when he finally managed to actually have it _stay_ close, and then turned, craning his neck above the box he was carrying to try and spot a book-free surface he could put the box down on. He had to make a book-free space large enough by using his elbows a bit more, pushing the less precarious looking stacks of books already present and sending some papers fluttering to the floor, but in the end, he won.

It had been a _really_ good deal, even if it meant having to lug around that heavy box half-way through London. Said box, full to the brim, was testimony of it. Aziraphale wasn’t sure _when_ he developed these skills, but either way all the people he negotiated with usually seemed pretty willing to agree with whatever price he’d propose. It felt a bit— Suspicious, at times, almost as if there was some kind of external force butting its nose in the situation. Still, it worked in his favour, so he wasn’t about to start complaining.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured at the feeling on his shoulders. “I’ll go eat something, just a minute.”

The sense of love that kept its arms always around Aziraphale, draped on his back like a very liquid-y cat, purred in a satisfied manner, and then went back to sleep. It was always so tired, the poor dear, having to constantly battle with the grief in Aziraphale’s soul to try and keep his spirits up.

He sighed softly, as he started to carefully take his daily loot out of the box, to properly catalogue them.

He was a strange man, Aziraphale. Some people that might’ve known him only on a superficial level might’ve kindly said that the poor dear had— Something misplaced in his head. Maybe he had a stroke? After all he was no spring chicken anymore, as he was approaching the big Five-O. He’d seemingly gone frantic and panicked for no reason at the start of the year, wailing in the middle of the road, asking about a man that did not exist, and hadn’t been the same since. Kept to himself, now, amassing books in that corner shop, and spoke as if addressing someone that was clearly not present, sometimes patting his own shoulder like one would do with a beloved pet.

People who had particular keen senses for the, as one might say, _supernatural_, seemed to freeze and go wide eyed when they spotted him across the street. Which was no surprise, because Aziraphale was constantly followed by the golden snake of love draped over his shoulders, and the dark, shapeless shadow of grief that loomed on his back. Some of these people would wisely decide to not touch _that_ even with a ten foot pole, others might attempt to gently approach him, trying to understand if this man was aware of the presences that stayed firmly stapled at his side. They could never find out, though, because Aziraphale seemed aware and unaware at the same time.

A couple of times some people had realized he was the son of one Jeremy Fell, and got really bad ideas about things to do with that information. Those two times were the only times Aziraphale had briefly felt like the snake had left his shoulders for a while, and had been blessedly unaware of the danger that casually brushed him by. For the most part, he was left alone. He had disappeared and cut ties with his family enough time ago that most people did not connect his last name with the one of the (in)famous family.

His stomach grumbled, and the snake pointed one slitted eye at him, severe.

“Yes, I’m going, just a minute!” Aziraphale huffed, taking the last book out of the box and holding it up for the snake to see. “See? Last one. I’m done. I have some leftover pasta from yesterday, I just need to warm it up, it’ll only take a se—“

The words died in his throat. He had casually glanced out one of the windows as he spoke to the snake, not even meaning to glance out. It just so happened to be where his eyes passed by on their way to the snake.

There was a man, outside. Red hair collected in a bun, with plenty of curly strands escaping to go frame his face. Sunglasses perched on his nose, a small snake tattooed under his right temple. He was wearing a knitted black and gray scarf draped around his neck, and gloves of the same color.

He was staring directly at him.

Aziraphale gaped, voice lowering to a trembly whisper.

“_Anthony_.”

The man disappeared from view, dashing, and before Aziraphale could even try to reboot his mind, the door of the shop opened. Anthony J. Crowley walked in, looking frantic, mouth opening and closing and eyebrow twisting as if he was about to cry.

“Aziraphale—“ he whispered. Or tried to, because he came as far as saying ‘Azir—' before a book was launched in his face.

—

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, so flat, as if he wasn’t properly in possession of his own vocal chords. “You’re real.”

Crowley, currently squatting with elbows resting on his knees and hands attempting to stop the flow of blood from his now split lips, let out a wet “Wha’ was _that_ fo’?!”

“Sometimes I— Huh— See things,” Aziraphale replied, still sounding strangely distant. “Never shaped like you? This was a first time, for sure, so I don’t know, I guess I went with ‘fight’ in the whole fight or flight debate.”

“What do you mean with ‘_seeing things_’?” Crowley asked, flabbergasted, as he finally managed to miracle his lips back in one piece, mouthing silently to test the freshly repaired skin.

“I don’t know, sometimes I see— Very strange people? At first I thought I just so happened to notice a lot of people with skin conditions, and I didn’t want to assume anything sinister, I mean, that would be cruel beyond reason… But then they kept passing by and some of them had animals literally melted on their heads? So, yeah, I’ve been— Keeping an eye out, so to speak.”

Crowley jumped on his feet, and was immediately upon Aziraphale, gloved hands hooking firmly on Aziraphale’s upper arms.

“What?! Who? How did they look? Did they hurt you? I will kill them if they did, if they even _thought_ of doing it, I will _ssssslaughter_ them—“

“They don’t— They never do anything, really. Just sort of stand there and look at me. They don’t even come close. They always make sure to be on the other side of a road, or outside the café I’m at, or— Just stand there, looking from afar. I don’t think they want to hurt me. They mostly look curious.”

A moment of silence fell. Aziraphale, still looking _distant_, blinked, and then looked down at the hands on his arms. Then back up at Crowley. He blinked again.

And then _screamed_.

“YOU!” he let out, hitting both fists on Crowley’s chest repeatedly. “YOU LEFT! YOU LEFT ME THERE! YOU JUST DISAPPEARED, NOT EVEN A TRACE! YOU LEFT ME THERE!” he hit one last time, and then a broken sob climbed out of his throat. “You left— I couldn’t _remember_ you— And then I did, a-and no one remembered you! Only me! I thought I was going _i-insane_—“

“Aziraphale—“ Crowley managed to interject, faint. “Oh, Aziraphale, I know— I’m sorry—“

“No! Bugger off!” Aziraphale pushed him away, angry tears streaming down his face. He turned around, furiously stalking away, and Crowley followed, gaping silently. Aziraphale stopped between two shelves, bent down on his knees, and patted his own shoulder.

“No!” he then hissed, voice low. “I won’t just— Turn around and forgive him! No matter what you say— Yes, I _know_ I missed him, but he’s been gone for_months_! Left me there to lose my mind and make everyone think I went insane! I had to find out there are— _Things_ in this world, all on my own, and— Oh, no, don’t look at me like _that_. Yeah. I know, sorry, I didn’t mean to call you a _thing_, dear. Alright. Yeah.”

“…Um. Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, very delicately. “Um— Are you— Ok?”

Aziraphale was up on his feet and back to face him so fast it made Crowley jump, and then cower under the strength of that furious gray-blue gaze.

“_You_ left them here!” he hissed, pointing at his shoulder. “So don’t try to act all innocent, _Anthony_.”

“Huuuuh—“ Crowley replied, looking at Aziraphale’s shoulder. Yep. It was a shoulder, alright. “What?”

Aziraphale blinked, his expression smoothing over. He squinted. “…You really don’t see them, do you?”

“…I have no idea what you are talking about, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s a snake on my shoulders. Big, gold and sparkly like bloody glitter. They speak to me. They told me _very_ interesting things.”

“A… Snake.”

Yes.”

“And they tell you things?”

“Huh-huh.”

“Like… What?”

“Oh, yeah, do try and play naive,” Aziraphale snapped, throwing his hands up in the air. “I know what you _are_, Anthony.”

“Which is?”

That seemed to make Aziraphale falter, and he shifted his weight a couple of times. “You are, huuuh— You are a _thing_.”

“That— That’s a definition that could encompass a lot, Aziraphale. A lot of _things_, in fact.”

“Alright, fine, I don’t know!” Aziraphale replied, clearly exasperated. “They are a good snake, but they don’t know a lot. They were only able to tell me that you are something more than human, and that you left them to me.”

“A g_ood snake_, huh?”

“Don’t use that tone,” Aziraphale growled, protectively holding a palm up as if protecting the invisible golden snake on his shoulders. “They are good. They’ve been here for me when you weren’t, for starters.”

“Oh, I do wonder—“ Crowley murmured, hit by a sudden inspiration. “Let’s see— Could the snake possibly look like this, but golden and sparkly?”

As he said that he shifted, the black and red snake slithering in an orderly coil, head rising to be eye to eye with Aziraphale. Aziraphale gaped, eyes going wide, and looked. And then turned to look at his shoulder. And then looked back at Crowley.

“Huh— Yes,” he said, faint.

“That’s what I thought,” Crowley muttered, shifting back. He palmed at his neck, relieved in finding that the scarf and gloves shifted with him, untouched. “Because that’s _me_. Well, the part of me that I left to you. The— The part of me that really damn loves you a whole lot, that I left behind to protect you.”

“…_Oh_,” Aziraphale said voice very, very tiny. His hand was still hovering on his shoulder, like he was keeping his palm gently cupping the snake’s snout.

“So I— I actually was there for you, even if you didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well,” Aziraphale’s tone had shifted into plaintive, as he let his hand fall limply at his side, and took a tiny step forward. “I would’ve liked it if you stayed in a more— Human shaped manner. And possibly visible to other people.”

“…I know, I’m sorry,” Crowley murmured, honest, deciding to take off his glasses. Aziraphale only reacted with a second of surprise, at Crowley’s eyes. “It’s— I would like to explain to you what happened, if you’ll allow me. I’ve— Missed you so much, Aziraphale. I— I don’t know if I need to say this, considering you now know what that snake on your shoulders is, but— But I love you, Aziraphale. I love you as I loved you during the time we had together. That hasn’t changed.”

Silence fell on them like a blanket, as Aziraphale stared at him with an expression that was simply impossible to read, a small fold between his eyebrows. Crowley felt something unpleasant squirm inside him. In the grand of scheme of things they really hadn’t been together all that long. Just a handful of months. They’ve kissed a number of times you could count on two hands, most of those kisses happening urgently during that last night they’ve spent together, which Crowley wasn’t sure should count. Did those kind of kisses count? Maybe only the sort of kisses a couple would share when fully clothed, to feel close and silently tell one another how much they loved each other, should count. In that case, they only kissed two times. Two.

And yes, Crowley knew he was utterly, hopelessly smitten, and that he would be for the rest of eternity. But Aziraphale was, for how— _Unconventionally_ intimate with the supernatural, now, still human. Their minds simply worked differently— Maybe he didn’t love Crowley anymore.

Oh— Oh, that thought did bad things to Crowley’s chest. Horrible things. Very fucking _awful_ things.

“Do you—“ he stammered, more than a little panicked. “Do you— Love me?”

Aziraphale silently looked on for some long, long seconds. Then closed his eyes, heaving a sigh.

“Good lord help me, but yes. Yes, I do love you, Anthony.”

“Oh— Oh, good, that’s— Good to know,” Crowley managed to exhale, feeling like he had just been dropped from a rollercoaster that went all the way out the stratosphere, with no safety bar, and somehow made it to the bottom alive.

“…You are wearing them,” Aziraphale murmured, something charged in his voice, cutting through Crowley’s attempts to put his internal organs back in their right places.

“What— Oh,” Crowley replied, understanding patting him gently. He self consciously adjusted the scarf around his neck. “Yeah, um— Been wearing them pretty much since the day I left.”

“You never_ took them off?_” Aziraphale asked, strangled. Crowley sniffed, and dragged the scarf up his nose, hoping to cover his burning cheeks. It was a mistake. “Is that _my ring?!_” Aziraphale added, even more strangled. The traitorous winged circle-y bastard glinted from the middle of Crowley’s collarbones, hanging from a chain that had been gently persuaded to stay very well fixed around his neck, if it knew what was good for it.

“Ah, fuck—“ Crowley muttered, dropping the scarf. He had been caught right in the middle of Full Sap, and now he had to deal with it. “Yeah, that’s your ring.”

“You kept it?!”

“Well, to be fair you told me I could do as I pleased with it.”

“…And you kept it.”

“It was— A piece of you,” Crowley muttered, scuffing his left foot on the parquet, unconsciously childish. “I just wanted to hang onto every piece of you that I could.”

Aziraphale, the kind bastard he was, decided to act as if he went momentarily deaf for some seconds, as Crowley recovered the agonizing corpse of his dignity. Then he curled his nose, glaring at the point the ring hung from around Crowley’s neck, under the scarf.

“I don’t like that ring, though.”

The declaration, admittedly, surprised Crowley. “You don’t? I thought it was important for you.”

“It was, but not for good reasons. It has— Bad history, that ring.”

“Well, now it doesn’t, not anymore. It changed hands, it’s mine, and I say that it has good history, now. _You_ history.”

The agonizing dignity let out a choked noise, and died.

As if he knew what Crowley was thinking, Aziraphale smiled, and suddenly Crowley did not care about his dead dignity anymore.

It was— That smile. _The_ smile. That magical curve of lips that made Crowley’s inside go all gooey and Aziraphale’s face shine like the light of God.

“You are ridiculous,” Aziraphale murmured, so much fondness in his voice that Crowley went breathless. “…C’mon, let’s go upstairs. I’m starving. I’ll close shop for the day and— You’ll tell me what you need to tell me.”

Crowley let out a shivering breath, as Aziraphale finally exited the two shelves, and took his hand, to guide him toward a spiral staircase squeezed between more shelves. The moment their hands touched, and Crowley thought he might ascend back to heaven, somehow, he saw something golden and _very_ sparkly.

The shining snake draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders looked up at him, darting a golden tongue out.

“Oh— Oh, hell no, you aren’t seriously telling me that the metaphysical manifestation of my love for you is a bloody snake that looks like it came right out a novel about vampires for horny teenagers—“

Aziraphale laughed.

Crowley never saw the shapeless shadow of grief. That one had disappeared the second the Demon had stepped in the bookshop.

—

Sometimes people in the streets would stop, and look.

They were just a couple of middle-aged men sitting outside a cafe in front of one another, chatting over a coffee and croissant while keeping their fingers entwined on top of the table. Or coming out a theatre while discussing animatedly, landing casual touches on one another even as they seemingly bickered about their appreciation, or lack thereof, for the play they just saw. Or simply taking a stroll in a park, feeding ducks, elbows hooked, smiling to one another.

They looked normal, but people would stop, and look. Wonder. Were they? It was hard to tell. They were just a couple of middle-aged men giving that ‘old married couple’ vibe, which might be strange, maybe, but in this day and age it was not so rare to see. So, was there something weird to them? Who knows.

They wouldn’t tell, either. After all it was their business, and theirs alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished posting two Big Fics in a single week! Woo-we, that was something.
> 
> The priest AU totally escaped my fingers not gonna lie, I was sure I'd be able to wrap it up in less than 20k words but NOPE
> 
> Hope you guys had fun! Ending is left purposefully open because I couldn't honestly decide myself, so... Did Crowley made himself human? Immortal-ized Aziraphale? Up to you to decide, baybee
> 
> I have more stuff in the works. Some one shots of prompts I'm filling on the GO kinkmeme on dreamwidth and a reverse AU I have about 18k words written and I'm NOWHERE near being done with it, so there's that. In short, follow me on stuff, and I'll post stuff, cheers.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://nohaijiachi.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/NohaVale) and [Pillowfort!](https://www.pillowfort.io/NohaIjiachi)


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